


Song of Stars

by Mythlorn



Series: Song of Stars [1]
Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Suicide, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 13:07:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 136,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mythlorn/pseuds/Mythlorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elrond begins to fade to his grief. Who will heal the healer? A story of things lost, and found.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 **Chapter One:**  
  
String calloused fingers tangled through silky black hair. It ran like rivers between them, reminiscent of blood on a night which the stars had stolen color from. The strands were even body-warm, just as if they had been freshly spilt.  
  
His lord had been lying upon his long tresses until he had rolled over and begun to tremble, the first signs of a fell dream to come. Hardly a night had gone by in the days since the lady … had sailed that his master did not need to be comforted thus.  
  
A shudder ran through Elrond's body, and then a second which was followed by indecipherable words. With a light shake from his attendant, he finally jerked awake and sat up with a gasp, his brow damp with sweat. “Cele—”  
  
“—My Lord, a nightmare, wake,” Lindir interrupted, trying to comfort where he perched on the side of his master's bed.  
  
Gray eyes that had gone pale with fear and pain met Lindir's, and the minstrel's hand fell away. If he had minded his touch, the master of Imladris had yet to say so.  
  
“Lindir, sing for me?” Elrond asked after a few moments spent heaving for air. There was a far too familiar note of pleading in his voice. One that verged on hysteria. The peredhel was never without his minstrel anymore. Since _she_ had gone, little could comfort him but song.  
  
“Gladly,” Lindir replied, marveling at his master's strength as he slid an arm around his shoulders and eased him back down to the blankets.   
  
It was effortless to forget the healer was a warrior as well, especially since the half-elf was so kind of heart. But Elrond had fought for, and lost, much. And despite being a master tactician there was great concern within the court of Imladris that he was no longer fit to lead. There was fear that this last blow would be too much. And perhaps those fears were founded, though Lindir would never speak of them. The darkness listened; and he knew, just as every other elf among them did, that it was waiting for their lord to falter.  
  
Elrond still trembled, unshed tears quivered at the tips of dark lashes; and such a thing was too painful to witness and fail to comfort. Such was Lindir's honor, the greatest of honors. He was to support the very keystone of Imladris itself. Minstrels could not mend broken hearts with their song, but they could offer understanding and comfort; and that was exactly what the singer planned to do.  
  
Not caring if it was his place or not, he lay down beside his master and pulled him closer, tugging the sheets back up around that sweat damp form.  
  
This night would not be a night for the harp, with Elrond at his desk, listening with his head in his hands. Tonight was a night for familiar words and a caring voice to ease the pain. Tonight was a night for a comforting heartbeat and the warmth and security of another close. These were the nights that the singer ached to love. How he desired to be here, to help and to give; and how he hated that his master suffered.  
  
Elrond moved to lay his heavy head against Lindir's shoulder, and the musician began to sing. Words that had once been Maglor's. Maglor, the second greatest of Ñoldorin minstrels, the one with a voice like a star. To be worthy and skilled enough to know the words he sang now? That was a thing to be treasured. His lord had taught them to him himself, and it was a great trust to be here, to be so close and to bring a modicum of comfort to one who brought so much healing to others.  
  
Lord Elrond's sons and daughter could ease his mind during the day, but at night …  
  
Elves had many words to describe death, but few to describe the act of suicide. Thus it had been decided that the Lady Celebrían had sailed. But all knew that such an undertaking would not have been made alone. The lady had gone ahead by herself as she always had, and she had left her bereft husband and children behind.  
  
Lindir knew his master was fading. But never would he say such a thing, and even if he could, never where the lord's equally stricken children could hear.  
  
Yet ... there had been whispers, and a minstrel was anything but deaf.  
  
He had been halfway through _The Fall of the Ñoldor_ , and Elrond's eyelids had grown heavy again, when Glorfindel appeared.  
  
He, like Lindir, had a way of sensing when he was needed. He had come silently, and his strength and light had already begun to fill the room. Effortlessly the blond elf's peace joined with the familiar and soothing song of the minstrel.  
  
When the newcomer laid down at Elrond's other side, the musician paused his ballad to sigh in relief. The golden champion was like light itself, and to have him here, in the dark, chasing away the shadows was pure reassurance. They would not lose the Lord of Imladris. Not this night.  
  
The danger was still present, but for a time it had been alleviated. Many hands had made a hard task easier.  
  
“What shall we do?” Lindir asked, when Elrond finally fell back into slumber, breathing deepening as Glorfindel's fingers picked up where the minstrel's had left off.  
  
“Sing, I will help keep watch.” The Lord of the Golden Flower's low voice drove back the darkness in the room. “Sleep when you may, as shall I. We all must heal.”  
  
Lindir was not so certain that was possible. Lady Celebrían's disappearance had punched a hole through the very heart of Rivendell. But he nodded obediently, and then he picked up his song again.  
  
After a time, Glorfindel's eyes also began to drift shut. The song was long, and like a lullaby on the gray seas.  
  
They were tired.  
  
They were all so tired.  
  
And Lindir sang on.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sometimes I have to start a fic out with a bit of a drabble. So here we are.
> 
> This is a prequel fic for: Ithildin, A Bagginshield post BoFA Fic. You can find it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/882335/chapters/1699168
> 
> I would also like to add that I'm really not into criticism. Some things mentioned here are head-canon and not perfectly true to Tolkien. I'm writing this story for my own entertainment. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't, well, no one is making you read it and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Beta Credit: All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
> Zeta Reader: All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond begins to fade to his grief. Who will heal the healer? A story of things lost, and found.

 

  
**Chapter Two:**  
  
      Elrond was no stranger to grief and loss, and he had known this was coming. He had seen it as a healer, experienced it as a husband, and even had a premonition of it. Still, he could not prevent it. The guilt that was crushing his chest was almost greater than the pain of sudden separation, and he knelt beside his wife, shaking hands holding a dagger that had gone still along with the heart that it had pierced.  
  
“ _Celebrían, my love,”_ he whispered hoarsely.  
  
The blood was still fresh.  
  
This was his fault. He had known and he had not said anything of it, hoping the future would move in a different direction. He had not been able to heal her, or return to her a sense of security and joy. And in the end, not even her children had been able to lifte her spirits.  
  
He tried to make a sound, any sound, but he could not. No words were sufficient for this situation.  
  
Lindir lay nearby, one bloody hand beneath his cheek, crumpled beside the lady. He had swooned when the reality had sunk in. He had come upon her first and had frantically tried to aid her, but it had been no use. There was no help for something ... like this.  
  
Elrond had realized too late, but he had still tried to make it back to stop her. He had felt the cut like it was to his own flesh. And even as he turned his stallion, racing back toward Imladris with a confused Glorfindel in tow, he had known it was already over. The two elf lords had been intending to ride out to meet Elladan and Elrohir, who were returning from another sweep for orcs in the 'dell. That had put everyone much too far away to respond in time, and she had planned it thus.  
  
Elrond had known he should not have left; she had been too calm, too collected.  
  
The Lord of Imladris looked up to where the Elda stood; and Glorfindel stared back at him, equally shocked. Without meaning to, Elrond made a pleading sound. As if entreating the golden warrior for help. As if they could fight this foe together, somehow. After all, the blond elf had defeated death once before.  
  
Glorfindel knelt. “Oh, my friend … how my heart weeps,” he said, strong hands gently moving Elrond's away from the blade, trying to move him away from Celebrían, but the peredhel would not have it. A noise of anger left the elf-lord, and he wrapped his arms around his wife, holding her fiercely close. “Very well, stay. We stay,” the blond elf said, changing his tactic and wrapping blade strengthened arms around them both, pulling the fallen lady and his shaking lord closer. Elrond wasn't ready to let go, and he would not make him.  
  
Lindir eventually began to stir, pale and agitated, but he was a servant of the people and would not wallow in despair in the middle of an emergency. He was still shaken but he had a job to do; and doing his best not to draw attention to himself, he sat up with a shudder. Looking at the scene before him, he swallowed hard, trying not to be sick and to ignore the blood on his hands. “Bandages. I shall bring them, my Lord,” he said quietly, his own emotions barely pushed aside as he stood. This he could do, even if he didn't know what to do for himself. And staggering, he made his way off into the halls on his self-appointed errand.  
  
~*~  
  
      Glorfindel had helped bind her wounds, taking as much care as if she still drew breath. “She will await you, my Lord. She has not gone forever, she has only gone ahead,” he said at last.  
  
When it was done, when she lay pale, redressed and perfect upon the floor, Elrond still would not let them move her.  
  
Elrohir and Elladan paced in the hall, distraught, and Arwen sat on a bench nearby. She was as still as a statue, and her blue eyes were wide with shock. From time to time one of her brothers would sit beside her and hold her hand, but the pain … it was too much, and neither of the two young lords could stay still for long.  
  
~*~  
  
      Erestor stood, leaning against the doorway between the peredhel's private chambers and the echoing hallway, a bridge between life and death. He watched over Elrond and Glorfindel, and turned from time to time to say something reassuring to the lady's children in the corridor.  
  
There was nothing to be done now but wait for the grief to become numbness.  
  
Arda had to go on, as distasteful as that was to admit. And in the moment, it barely seemed possible.  
  
The councilor's gaze then fell to Glorfindel. Never had he forgotten that pain, or how close he had come to fading without his other half; and his hands trembled in sympathy, for he could not behold Elrond's mourning without remembering his own. Old hurts far too easily compounded with the new, and it was all he could do to hold back his tears. He and Glorfindel had loved Celebrían as though she had been theirs, because Elrond had loved her. They had all lost someone precious this day ... and when his dark brown eyes met his beloved's blue, he found an answering ache.  
  
When he could bear their combined grief no longer, Erestor looked away from the golden warrior to meet the peredhel's lost gray instead. He wanted to help. He would have given anything to help. And being the more logical mind in the room at the moment, he quickly determined what his lord needed most: time to process. And so he did what little he could. He addressed Celebrían's lost elflings where they milled in the hall. “She has sailed without us,” the councilor announced, turning away from Elrond to face his children; remaining blocking the door to buy his lord those last few tender minutes with his wife. “I will see to the arrangements, and ...” he drew a shuddering breath. “I will send word to ready a ship."  
  
It was Elrohir— who was recovering his sensibilities the most quickly— that nodded in agreement with Erestor first. The peredhel knew that what the councilor proposed would have been what his mother wanted. “We will send her off at the Havens. She can prepare the way, as she was too impatient to wait for the rest of us to accompany her,” he said, voice breaking. He was still dazed and not able to fully grasp what had happened.  
  
Elladan echoed the nod with his own. “What do we do now?” he asked Erestor, his voice wavering as it had not since he was a youth.  
  
The councilor moved from the doorway to rest a gentle hand on the eldest twin's shoulder.  
  
“Eat. You all must eat, drink, and rest,” he said, knowing well there would be no sleep for anyone this night.  
  
~*~  
  
      Lindir sang. Rain drenching him to the bone, and never did he falter. He knew all of the lady's favorites songs, and he unerringly performed them while she was laid aboard the deck of one of the finest vessels that the Grey Havens had to offer. He put forth every ballad he knew from then on, keeping vigil for the appointed seven hours; and in all that time never did he cease. Voices joined his, and voices faded, but the music never stopped.  
  
Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel had eventually joined the bereaved of Imladris, and the elves of the Golden Wood that had accompanied them would take up the dirge as they could. Mourners came and went from the ship, placing offerings beside the Lady of Imladris to take with her to Valinor, and the Lady of the Golden Wood wept upon her daughter's breast for longer than was seemly, though no one could blame her. They all wanted to do the same.  
  
      When at last the evening star rose, the Lord Elrond hoisted the sail of the funerary ship; and lashing the till' straight to the nearest rail to guide the vessel unerringly to Undómiel, he finally allowed his sons to break the boat free of the docks.  
  
It had been eight hours, and Lindir's throat was raw; but his mournful song unerringly accompanied the honor guard that escorted the lady and her widower to the edge of the harbor. He had been unflagging, but now he began to tremble, feeling like his heart might shatter with his own grief.  
  
Mercifully, finally, the funeral was over in a flash of light; the sun sinking beneath the waves with a last spark of brilliance, sending Celebrían on her way. The guard then turned their boats back for shore; Elrond among them. The world seemed unreal to the singer, though distantly he could hear Arwen sobbing. Yet he did not look to her, for he could not tear his gaze away from his master. Dread began to fill him at what was to come, and he felt keenly the hours at his post; especially when his lord stepped back onto the docks.  
  
He could see that the light had left the peredhel. To anyone else, Elrond would have seemed stoic, perhaps even strong. To his minstrel, it was too painful to bear. Tears choked the singer at last, and he was beginning to grow hoarse … when another voice joined his. The sheer lightness of it gave Lindir courage, and he blinked in surprise, trying to regain his breath. Who else was keeping vigil now? Who else would notice the struggles of a simple musician? He knew nearly every elf here by voice alone. And yet ...  
  
Was this a dream? He could not see from whence the song came, but that voice! Such a voice! Heartened, Lindir let the stranger lead as his own melody failed. And when he glanced around surreptitiously for his rescuer, he noticed Elrond's head jerk up as if he had been struck. For a moment hope crossed the peredhel's face ... only to be brutally dismissed with a shake of that dark head. His lord then sagged back against Glorfindel, muttering something that made the blond elf blink in surprise.  
Lindir knew this all meant something, though he had no idea what. The world had become a blur of grief for all those present, himself included. He doubted many could see beyond their own hurts. Yet it was not knowing who sang that had finally drawn Arwen's attention from her father, to his attendant. And at last she had taken notice of the minstrel's exhaustion. Bearing up beneath him she offered him her shoulder, and her sweet voice to cover for his aching one. She, too, joined the stranger's ballad, and encouraged Lindir to stand strong to the last.  
  
One song later, that foreign voice faded out, and Lindir could give no more.  
  
“ _The Fall of the Ñoldor_? The last song?” Arwen asked the bard who leaned against her, stunned to have heard what she had.  
  
“My lord's favorite,” Lindir rasped, aware she knew this, too. “I did not know any recalled it still,” the musician stated.  
  
Arwen shook her head. “Few do,” she replied.  
  
Had it been one of the elves of the Golden Wood?  
  
      Elrond's face was damp with tears, and he swayed upon the pier. He had gone into shock again, and it took both Glorfindel and Erestor to guide him off of the docks. The Lady Galadriel was not much better off, and in the end, mother and son-in-law found a quiet alcove to take council. Lord Celeborn did his best to comfort all present, but there was little that would ease the sting.  
  
~*~  
  
      Elrond's fingertips stroked over the ring upon his finger; he was restless and driving everyone mad with it. The closeness of grief had faded to the usual elvish avoidance, and the Lord of Imladris had never felt more alone. His sons were gaunt, riding off recklessly to slaughter orcs with even more vengeance than usual; often returning with injuries to tend. (Which the lord would let no one else even attempt to mend.)  
  
He was caught between holding his children fearfully close, and pushing them away for concern that he was the one who was failing them. And all the while worrying that they should not be bound to him.  
  
He had even shouted at Lindir this morning, which was unlike himself. He never raised his voice. The minstrel had nearly collapsed under his displeasure, and he was now chiding himself for that, too.  
  
He feared hurting those around him, and then he did so anyway.  
  
He would have thought that he would not react so to his grief. His parents, Maedhros, Maglor, Gil-galad … Elros. They had all faded from his heart, and he had let them go, knowing that to cling to them would destroy him. That he could not bear the heartbreak, even if he bore the stubborn blood of men. He had pushed the hurt away so that he could function, so that he could help others as he had sworn to do ... but driving back the pain had not been enough. It had only retreated to lurk, and now, with his soul torn asunder, he could feel the nightfall pressing in again.  
  
The Dark Lord was waiting, scheming. No doubt this had been part of his plan. For Elrond to waver, for Imladris to collapse.  
  
With hands fisted in frustration, the peredhel rose from his chair, determined to do something, though _what_ he did not know; when Lindir glided into the room. It was as if thought had summoned the minstrel. Hand over his heart submissively, the singer looked wide eyed and shy, but he still approached, gaze downcast. Devotion winning out over fear of reproach.  
  
“My Lord?” he asked.  
  
Elrond did not know how to reply. He wanted to give voice to a million things, to apologize for his words and tone. To … why had the bard even come back?  
  
“I am ...” he began, voice breaking on the word 'sorry' that never left his lips.  
  
“My Lord … you weep?” Lindir asked, a long fingered hand touching the side of Elrond's face.  
  
The peredhel reached up slowly to brush his fingertips against the singer's forearm ... when he felt it. He didn't remember tears; but undeniably, his face was wet. “I ...” he tried uselessly again.  
  
“Sit, my Lord. I will sing for you,” Lindir said, expression concerned, yet still fearful of being rebuffed.  
  
Elrond wanted to strike out and say that it would not help, that nothing could. That all that remained was pain and darkness, and that he could not eat, could not drink, and could not sleep! But then the minstrel guided him down, perching them on the edge of the bed like he might have a younger and overtired Elrohir.  
  
Gentle hands wiped tears, before, as if from nowhere, cold mint tea was offered. The peredhel did not want it, and yet when Lindir began to sing, soft and reassuring, he let his hands be guided and he drank. The beverage eased the ache in his throat, diverting the grief and making it easier to breathe. He then downed the rest like an elf dying of thirst, and Lindir kept him company as he did.  
  
When utter exhaustion finally set in, dry sobs shaking Elrond's body, it was the minstrel who laid him down and tucked him in. Harp calloused fingers stroked through his hair, just as another's had done long ago. Lindir's touch ... it was not Celebrían's, nor anyone else's, and somehow that was best. It was quieting words that followed the peredhel down into mercifully dreamless sleep, and haunting song which comforted the hurt, even if just for a time.  
  
“Maglor,” Elrond whimpered in his dreams.  
  
“Hush, my Lord, you are not alone, all is forgiven,” Lindir said.  
  
And long after his master had fallen into dreams, Lindir watched over him.  
  
~*~  
  
      Elrond looked up into Glorfindel's terrified face. Powerful hands were checking him over for injuries, refusing to let him up until the warrior was certain he was unharmed.  
  
Orcs lay sprawled all around them, and Elrond's stallion lay dead beside them. Glorfindel had pulled him out from beneath the beast.  
  
“This must stop! You have a family, my Lord! Your sons are bad enough, but for you to undertake their folly, too!”  
  
Elrond had never noticed that Glorfindel had freckles until now, perhaps because they stood out starkly against fear-paled skin and black orc blood. He wanted to say something, anything. He wanted to apologize, but he could not.  
  
“Why! Why are you doing this! Hunt with some care if you must! This was unplanned and foolish, and were I not here you might have been killed!” the blond warrior hissed, giving Elrond a shake to regain his cross-eyed attention. “This is not like you!”  
  
There was silence between them then, one so long that the blond elf finally dropped Elrond back to the dirt with a sound of utter frustration. Glorfindel was loyal, but not stupidly so. He had begun to walk away when at last the Lord of Imladris managed to speak.  
  
“I cannot ...” the peredhel began, realization crossing his face. The truth was sobering, far more than losing his mount, or the piles of orc bodies around them. Glorfindel had slain most of them. His hand reached out as he struggled to his knees, fingertips touching the mane of his dead stallion. A black arrow through the heart had been his steed's end.  
  
“You cannot?!” the golden elf shot back, almost angry beyond reason.  
  
“I cannot feel anything,” Elrond whispered, and then the words began to tumble out and over each other. “Not rain, nor sun, nor wind. I cannot hear the trees or the water …” He was shaking, delayed adrenaline dulling the pain of what would soon blossom into some very magnificent bruises.  
  
Glorfindel froze, the fury leaving him as quickly as it had come. Slowly, head bowed, he helped Elrond up out of the dirt. And with a heavy heart, boosted him up onto Asfaloth. “Ride home, my Lord, I will attend to the bodies,” he said, brow furrowed.  
  
“But what of you?” Elrond rasped, trembling to keep himself upright in the saddle.  
  
“I will walk,” Glorfindel said.  
  
He needed time to think.  
  
~*~  
  
      Erestor's expression was like a storm cloud on the horizon. He was not one to take things lightly, and as chief counselor of Elrond's household he was not one to hold his tongue when action needed to be taken.  
  
Elrond stood, hands clenched tightly over the railing of the gazebo, looking out over the falls. He was steadfastly trying to look anywhere but at Erestor.  
  
“You must eat, my Lord. Your grief shows, and your people are frightened.”  
  
Elrond bit his lip, feeling the stone beneath his fingertips like the accusation in his councilor's tone. His advice was, and was not, a chiding. Erestor was a friend, but he was not the sort to mince words. That was how he had obtained the position he now held.  
  
“I am here, I keep the darkness at bay, and I am doing my best. I fail to see how my personal habits fit into this discussion,” Elrond rebutted, expression guarded. He felt strangely light-headed.  
  
“Your sons are lashing out, your daughter is withdrawn … if you must grieve, share it with those that love you. Never have I seen a family that acts as if they are all so alone while those they cherish still breathe!” Erestor snapped, not liking being ignored.  
  
Elrond flinched. He had seen, but he had not _seen_. He had been lost in a web of dreams and visions that only Galadriel herself could have made sense of, if it was possible; and all of it felt fell. His shoulders slumped, and inside he cursed himself.  
  
Arwen and the twins had been returning more frequently, trying to curl up beside him in bed for comfort. He had been pushing them away, even though he had wanted them to stay. It only made sense that if no one could sleep, that they might at least be close as they once had ...  
  
A sound of frustration left him, and he blinked back tears.  
  
Erestor's light touch to the sleeve of his robe made him realize that his palms were aching from how hard he clutched the railing. And then the councilor's slighter form pressed to his, embracing him from behind and guiding him away from the water.  
  
“Come, my Lord. Come rest. A day will dawn when you will feel the wind at your back and the sun against your face. You will sing again, and all will be well. Time heals.” Erestor knew it would not. He also knew he had to offer the age old advice. It tended to be a shallow comfort in times like these.  
  
And so it was that Elrond was all lean ribs and confused limbs when the councilor finally managed to guided him to a nearby bench. And ignoring the other elf's indecision, the adviser began to slice an apple; offering it out a piece at a time to his lord, who looked like he could not remember what his own hands were for, or that he needed to eat when his stomach was growling.  
  
~*~  
  
      Erestor lay a tired head against Glorfindel's shoulder. “He needs to remember his purpose,” the raven-haired elf whispered, glad for his mate's comfort. Every day of seeing his lord as he did, reminded him of the long and terrible years without Glorfindel. It hurt, and he wanted to help. Of course, one very stubborn peredhel would not let anyone, and the councilor was now more-or-less running Imladris by himself. Glorfindel had gamely taken to keeping an eye on Arwen, Elladan, and Elrohir; but by the end of the day, both elves were too tired for anything more than embracing.  
  
“Something must be done,” Glorfindel admitted. “But what?”  
  
“Perhaps he needs some time away?” Erestor asked, hand stroking through Glorfindel's hair before he took another long sip of wine. “There may be a chance … just a chance, that there is someone who can reach him. Someone else to whom the loss of a wife is recent?”  
  
“Are you insane? They would kill each other!” Glorfindel gasped when it suddenly occurred to him whom Erestor was speaking of.  
  
“Maybe, then again, with a bit of careful diplomacy, I might be able to convince Thranduil that a change of scenery would be good for Elrond.”  
  
“But can you convince Elrond of that?” Glorfindel asked grimly.  
  
“Of that I am uncertain. But our lord acts as though he aches to run away. Perhaps he needs to do just that; but if we slant it as a mission of diplomacy ...”  
  
“Two words for you, my love. Giant. Spiders. What are we going to do if he becomes more reckless and gets himself eaten? You know they are on the move,” Glorfindel worried.  
  
“That … perhaps we will just have to take our chances. What if we sent Lindir with him?” Erestor asked  
  
“Lindir ...” Glorfindel's brow furrowed.  
  
It was just crazy enough that it might work.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Oh my GOD you know it's bad when you depress yourself. Just hang in there okay, darkest before the dawn, and all that. T_T <3 
> 
> This is a prequel fic for: Ithildin, A Bagginshield post BoFA Fic. You can find it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/882335/chapters/1699168
> 
> I would also like to add that I'm really not into criticism. Some things mentioned here are head-canon and not perfectly true to Tolkien. I'm writing this story for my own entertainment. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't, well, no one is making you read it and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Beta Credit: All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
> Zeta Reader: All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond begins to fade to his grief. Who will heal the healer? A story of things lost, and found.

 

 **Chapter Three:**  
  
      Glorfindel had ridden out before dawn, and left Erestor standing with one hand nervously clutching their balcony railing. As a matter of fact, the councilor was still doing just that ... although he had added staring dejectedly in the direction his partner had departed to the repertoire. The sky had recently begun to lighten to a shade of pink and mandarin; the sort of color that would have normally been a topic of discussion between the two elves over a cup of morning tea. But Glorfindel had an errand of utmost importance to attend to. One that left Imladris even more defenseless in an already vulnerable time. But this was a necessary risk.  
  
And it had been completely Erestor's idea. Which displeased the councilor on more levels than one.  
  
Erestor had made plenty of decisions in his life that he hadn't liked; some of them daily. But this had to top the list of harebrained schemes. While fate may have favored the bold, and he had seen proof of such a thing time and again ... the Chief Councilor of Imladris was afraid.  
  
He hated being without his mate for so long. He hated them being apart, and always he feared that the other half of his heart would not return to him. It had happened before. He knew he could not let the anxiety sway him. He knew that Glorfindel would no doubt make the journey safely. Especially with Asfaloth to take him unerringly and swiftly to his destination. He also knew that, for himself, he had double the tasks he normally attended to; so he had no time for this sort of childish emotion.  
  
He understood his responsibilities well.  
  
But that made nothing easier.  
  
Finally, he forced himself away and inside to make a cup of tea. Relaxation was important for him when he could get it. All the days since their lord had begun to fade were increasingly busy and difficult. Yet that did not stop his gaze from roaming back to the main bridge again; worrying, and hoping.  
  
Of course, thinking on such troubles tended to summon them, and in retrospect he should have known better.  
  
      The cup had been halfway to his lips for his first sip, when there came a frantic knock. With a sigh, he shook his head and regretfully set his drink back down before stalking over to answer. When he threw the heavy door open, short dagger in hand, he found a terrified looking Arwen in only her sleep clothes. He drew her into the room protectively, fearing an intruder that had been missed; and then looked around suspiciously before he closed the door again and pushed a chair under the handles. He was no stranger to a sacking.  
  
“My Lady, what is it?” he asked, reaching for his cloak where it hung on a peg by the door-frame, quickly draping it around her for modesty and warmth. Her lips were trembling, and even her dark waves of hair looked startled.  
  
“Erestor, I cannot find Ada anywhere!” she gasped. “He is not in his rooms, and I cannot find Lindir either!”  
  
That … was the worst possible news he could have gotten before (or after) his first cup of tea.  
  
The councilor though as quickly as possible.  
  
“Where are your brothers?” he asked her.  
  
“Still sleeping. Mercifully,” she whispered.  
  
“Breathe, dear one,” the adviser said, reminding himself to do the same. “I will escort you to them. I want all of you to stay together, and stay alert. It may be nothing. It may be completely harmless, but until we rule out every possibility, I want you to be safe.”  
  
She nodded, hugging his cloak close, and he took the time to embrace her. The lord's children were now grown; young, by elven standards, but grown. That did not stop any of those of Imladris from seeing them as they might their own family. “Come. I will accompany you,” he said, offering her his arm before retrieving one of his daggers from the table beside the door. He then showed her how to conceal it up the sleeve of his borrowed cloak. She might need it, and the dagger's twin would still be with him. He could not allow her to go unarmed.  
  
~*~  
  
      Lindir sometimes cursed being a minstrel.  
  
Minstrels were gifted with song and lore, but not all of them (nor all elves for that matter) enjoyed being lost in the deepest part of the forest of the Trollshaws. Bards, by nature, tended to be more domesticated and not as deeply connected with the forest as they were with their own people. That wasn't always a bad thing.  
  
But this was a bad thing. A very bad thing. Because right now Lindir needed the forest to be on his side.  
  
A branch whipped the musician under the chin, bringing him sharply back to reality, and he stifled a yelp as he slipped back down the embankment he had been trying to climb. Everything felt hopeless, and he swore he was making no progress at all. He was lost, so very lost. And he knew with a kind of heartbreaking certainty that his master had come this way. He had to have. There was nowhere else he could have gone.  
  
~*~  
  
      Elrond felt like he was dreaming, though he knew that he was awake. The world was dull and gray, and the forest floor against bare feet was remote and cold. He heard it again, then, that song. The song that had woken him and guided him down the marble halls of his home. He looked up, feeling the warm wind of the dawn fighting with the chill air and dew of the rock beneath his feet. It lifted up his unbound hair, and black tangles threatened to obscure his vision as he crossed a fallen log. He squinted in frustration. There was something. Just there in the distance.  
  
He didn't know exactly what he was looking for, or why he did as he did, but he knew he could do nothing else. Something was missing. His stomach clenched, and he felt keenly the weakness of the last few weeks of refused meals. He was shivering, and he had come a very long way in only his sleep robes.  
  
The peredhel had an idea of just how long he had been walking when the sun finally began to rise. Briefly, there was a blaze of color that he was able to focus on, but the palette was only there for a short while; soon enough, storm clouds rolled in and stole it away again. The coming tempest cast a silvery glow to the dew that coated the world around him, and the sheer brilliance of it overwhelmed all of his senses.  
  
He had been lost in body and in thought again; when something pale and white flashed before him, startling him. He rubbed his eyes and carefully made his way closer, expression disbelieving. He had nearly spooked it!  
  
There was a tangle of silvery antlers taking small, delicate steps. White fur rippled in the storm wind, and with the glow of Tinúviel herself the creature wove in and out of the sparkling maze of dew-damp trees. A stag? There was something more to it, though, and Elrond knew that as he staggered ahead, following what he saw because he felt compelled to. He wasn't running away anymore. He was running _to_ something. Something that he needed desperately, even if he couldn't explain it.  
  
He followed the creature for as long as he could; but with no cloak or boots, and a weakened body, it did not take long for him to succumb to exhaustion. He didn't remember dropping to his knees in the hollow made by a great tree's roots, but he did remember when it began to rain. The low hanging branches of the pine above him enfolded him like a lover’s arms, and he lay down his head on the moss beneath him.  
  
He had lost sight of the stag, and disappointment filled him. Raindrops fell on his upturned face, and the cold began to soak into his body. He could see flashes of storm clouds and lightning between the waving needles above, and he felt foolish.  
  
The sway of the tree in the wind was like being rocked, and he was tired. So tired.  
  
“Elrond, this is no place to rest, nor is it right to give up now,” a soft voice told him.  
  
It didn't seem so strange anymore, to hear that voice as he had for the last few months. The songs had carried on the wind, and on the nights he couldn't sleep, which were most, it had always been there. A comfort when his sleep deprived minstrel was dozing.  
  
He was dying, wasn't he? Of course he would hear Maglor's voice. Soon he would be reunited with those he loved, and he would not have to wait any longer. It would eventually stop hurting, and that was the best he could hope for. He had just closed his eyes, giving way to darkness, when something warm and dry covered him.  
  
“Mother?” he whimpered weakly.  
  
~*~  
  
      The stranger winced at that word. It had been the first Elrond had ever spoken to him. Gentle arms wrapped around the peredhel's supine form, and worried blue eyes studied a pale face. With a sigh of frustration, he curled the healer into the deep black velvet of his cloak, holding him close against a lean chest. The lone figure then struggled them both back into the dry shelter of the pine tree's overhanging branches. “Oh Elbereth, please give him strength,” the deepest and sweetest of voices whispered. “This fault is mine; I thought he did not need me. I was selfish. Please ...”  
  
The wanderer lifted a flask to the struggling elf-lord's lips, forcing him to drink most of the contents. The storm was strong, and further soaking of the prostrate elf in his arms would do no good at all. The Lord of Imladris was already cold, too cold …  
  
Thinking quickly, the rescuer unlaced his tunic and tugged down the wet upper portions of Elrond's robes, pressing warm and dry skin against cold and damp. He then changed the position of his cloak so that it held in the body heat between them; and became a shield against the cold rain that had swept down from the Misty Mountains.  
  
The strange elf counted every heartbeat, feeling the gradual warming of the other against him. “Thank you,” he whispered, sparing a glance upward even as he began to sing, the song uplifting and light, pushing away the thunder and the heaviness of the air and forest.  
  
~*~  
  
      Lindir had clawed his way up the embankment at last, and he took some time to straighten his spine as he reached the top of the hill. He was panting for breath, and his drenched hair straggled around his face. He had nearly fallen into the ford. He had been attacked by a bobcat. There was a nick out of the tip of one ear from quite possibly the hundredth branch he had taken to the face, and his robes were torn. He was soaked from head to toe, covered in mud ... and he had absolutely no sense of humor left. Before now he had never understood how any self-respecting minstrel could ever stand to march onto the battlefield.  
  
And now he did ... Because he was going to find his lord. And then he was going to kill him. Quite possibly bare-handed.  
  
He was outraged, yes, but he still had his wits about him. He had wanted to begin calling out again, but he knew if his master were injured it could attract unwanted attention (And he certainly didn't want to experience any more of that today.) But it did encourage him to calm himself, squint against the downpour, and look around. He had to _think_. His lord had to be near!  
  
He had been about to give up hope when he spied one of the ties that had bound Elrond's sleeping braid. It had fallen, seemingly idly, amongst the leaves beneath his feet.  
  
His eyes narrowed.  
  
~*~  
  
      The stranger looked up to see a very wet, muddy, and angry male elf charging at him with a splintered off tree branch. He ducked just in time, protectively flattening himself over Elrond as the outraged newcomer gave a war shout that would have frozen the blood of many a hardened warrior. And missed, slamming his makeshift club into the tree trunk instead of his target.  
  
This gave the wanderer a chance to remember where he had seen his assailant before. From the day of the funeral. He was one of Elrond's attendants, and he did recall him being exceptionally gifted in song. He was also, thankfully, not graced with much in the way of combat skills.  
  
“Hold! Stay your hand!” the stranger called over the roar of rain.  
  
The reply he got, as the distraught attendant struggled the branch back up again, was something that might have been along the lines of 'Damn you, kill you for this!'  
  
From one minstrel to another, the wanderer found this reply understandable on more than one level. “Hold, calm yourself, your master yet lives, and he needs you!” the stranger tried again as he held up one long fingered hand protectively.  
  
And those were the words to calm any loyal servant's heart.  
  
“Alive?” the beaten and bedraggled minstrel whispered, the branch dropping from his numbed hands. Anger turned to sobs moments later. With no regard for personal space, Lindir fell to his knees beside the two, shaking as he carefully pulled the stranger's cloak aside.  
  
Elrond was sleeping. More deeply than he had seen him do in months. The musician's delicate and muddy fingers stroked over pale skin that had begun to warm, and then checked for a pulse and found it strong and regular.  
  
“Will you take him home, and care for him?” the stranger asked vulnerably.  
  
Lindir finally looked up, rain and tears had streaked trails through the mud on his cheeks. He squinted, recognizing that voice. “You?” he whispered. “You are the singer from the funeral? What are you doing here? From where do you hail?”  
  
The stranger chuckled softly. “It does not matter who I am, or even where I am from. Just know that … I am here. I am not far. Tell your master that when he is stronger, I will come to visit him.”  
  
The musician's eyes widened, then, and he froze. “Maglor. You are Maglor, you raised my Lord ... and …”  
  
“Yes, and if you would give me leave, I should like to visit sometime,” the stranger said, taking advantage of the fact that the other minstrel was rooted to the spot. Carefully, he placed Elrond's limp form into Lindir's trembling arms. “Better late than never, yes?” he asked quietly.  
  
Lindir swallowed hard, and what little color he had left drained from his face while he struggled to accept the weight of his master's weakened body.  
  
“I have faith that you are as strong as your voice is beautiful,” Maglor continued. “And as I do not think I would find welcome this day in Imladris, but for its lord's say—” He stood regretfully, leaving his cloak wrapped tightly around Elrond. “—You must carry him. Home is that way.” He pointed. “The moss does not grow on that side of the trees; so if you always follow the bare side, you shall find your way. Though from this height, you can easily see the path.”  
  
Lindir was still too shocked to answer, or even properly introduce himself. “My Lord, I do not think I have the strength to— ”  
  
“—Your warriors come soon, and I must go. Please, tell him what I have said. And please … stay with him? He has always needed another close,” Maglor asked.  
  
Lindir did not know what to say, and so he nodded nervously, meaning the gesture, but too overwhelmed for words.  
  
There came a sound from down the hill, then. A low whistle, and when Lindir turned back to tell the son of Fëanor to flee, that the scouts of Imladris approached, he was already gone.  
  
~*~  
  
      Erestor sat on the edge of Elrond's bed.  
  
Their lord was still sleeping despite having been bathed, redressed, and force fed some broth and tea. He also seemed to be resting more peacefully than he had in a long time. The healer's hands were the only tense part of him, and they clutched that black velvet cloak that he had been returned in. No one had the heart to take it away from him. The garment had not been explained by Lindir; and the loyal minstrel now lay sleeping on one of the couches in Elrond's rooms; washed, nourished, and in clean robes.   
  
One of the minor healers had tended to his hurts, and the councilor didn't want to wake the bard for details; he looked like he had been to war ... And to this very minute, none could imagine of a scenario that involved thorns that long embedded so far up and to the inside of the thigh. Nature and Lindir did not seem to be friends.  
  
Erestor winced in sympathy.  
  
The uproar had ceased in the city, and everyone had calmed now that Elrond had been found. That didn't mean that the Ñoldo didn't have a horrible headache from the stress, and still wanted to know exactly what had come to pass. So far absolutely nothing made sense at all.  
  
“How is he?” Elladan whispered from where he peered around the door frame into the room.  
  
“He sleeps, but it is a healing sleep,” Erestor replied.  
  
Oh how he wished for Glorfindel right now. The other did have some skill as a healer, and he would be the only one he would trust to Elrond's care when he was this … delicate.  
  
~*~  
  
      Glorfindel swung down from Asfaloth's back. The ride had been long, but unhindered. He had been greeted by the Galadhrim graciously, and found himself quickly before the Lord and Lady of the Wood. He had tried his best to remain positive for the sake of those he spoke with, but he could not hide his worry from Galadriel. She had taken one look at him, and tenderly cupped his face in her hands.  
  
“You carry worry and fear, I never thought I would see the day,” she said softly. “I prayed I never would.”  
  
With that, every last guard was dismissed, the doors to the talan were closed; and Glorfindel began to tell her everything he knew. Some things she was already aware of; and the few things that she did not have knowledge of, Celeborn found fearful.  
  
The golden warrior sat with his head bowed, a glass of wine in his hand, and the Lord of The Wood stood close, a hand companionably on his guest's broad shoulder.  
  
“Do you think it would work?” Glorfindel asked, uncharacteristically nervous.  
  
“I think … that perhaps it may. Legolas, Greenwood's prince, strays close to our borders often. I do not think this is a good time for the house of Thranduil, and perhaps that makes it the most fortuitous. There has been so much pain, and I think if you ask as humbly as you dare, the king may very well come speak with your lord to try and alleviate it,” Galadriel said. The worry on her face was deep. “I will help in any way I may. Elrond is my son-in-law still, and I much desire to help him. He was a good husband to my daughter, and is a good father to my grandchildren. For that alone, I would give my all.” Her hand came to rest on top of Celeborn's.  
  
“Stay this night,” the Lord of the Golden Wood decreed. “Rest. In the morning we will see you to the crossing. I will send word ahead of when you shall arrive. Tonight, dine with us and take comfort where you may.”  
  
“You miss him, do you not?” Galadriel asked, as she guided Glorfindel to the doors of the talan.  
  
Glorfindel smiled slowly. “More than words can express. He worries when I am far for long.”  
  
This made the lady giggle. “Can you really blame him? And when shall your wedding be?” she teased, trying to lighten his heart.  
  
“As soon as my lord is well,” Glorfindel said steadfastly.  
  
She was right. It _was_ time, wasn't it?  
  
~*~  
  
      Glorfindel knelt, head bowed.  
  
Thranduil was pacing around him, expression one of mixed emotion. That was something the golden warrior was fairly certain wasn't common on that regal face. There was a tension in the room, too. One that was a foreign mixture of hurt, injured pride, and nostalgia.  
  
When he realized his motions were becoming inelegant, the Sinda made his way back to perch on his throne of antlers. He left Glorfindel kneeling, which the warrior was certain was no oversight. He still refused to react to the unkindness. His subservience was for Elrond and Erestor both. He would withstand this treatment up until a certain point. On that he had been clear with Erestor, who had not pushed him on the matter.  
  
This was a test.  
  
He did not plan to fail it.  
  
“And you feel that I, a _lowly_ wood elf king, in a crumbling palace, and with no Ring of Power ... would ever reach one such as the Peredhel?” Thranduil asked imperiously.  
  
Glorfindel smiled to the floor.  
  
There had been one night, after the loss of Gil-galad and Oropher, that it had been rumored the two standard-bearers had comforted each other. Even Glorfindel had to admit the rumor was plausible; and that in facing their grief together in the past, they might know a way to ease it yet again.  
  
“My Lord, I feel that one who has been counsel to Lord Elrond before may be wisest counsel indeed. I fear that without you, he will fade. I do not ask you to hastily allow him leave to your lands. I ask that you call upon him yourself and make your own decision, to see if what I speak is truth enough in your eyes.”  
  
“This would put him greatly in my debt,” Thranduil said, fingertips steepling against each other.  
  
Glorfindel nearly chuckled, and was glad that he was kneeling and none could see his expression. “Imladris humbly invites you to visit her,” the warrior said evenly, knowing he had Thranduil by his desire for power, if nothing else.  
  
It amused him how the King of Greenwood hid his love and concern behind his pride. Often enough, the golden warrior had been reminded of a peacock instead of an elven king. Proud. So proud.  
  
“I will consider your offer,” Thranduil said, finally gesturing for Glorfindel to rise; which he did gracefully. “Will you allow us to offer you hospitality while I take council among my people?”  
  
There it was, a spark of kindness couched within magnanimity.  
  
“It would be my pleasure,” Glorfindel said, offering a slight bow and touch to his forehead.  
  
By all rights, he did not have to offer any such fealty. But Thranduil had been judging the seriousness of the situation by how far the golden warrior was willing to submit himself.  
  
Both knew that they had already gotten what they wanted. The wait for an answer was only a game based on hubris and a test of patience, which, considering Glorfindel had lived with Erestor for time immemorial, he was certain he would triumph over.  
  
And he would eat well, too. He had been told by others that the feasts of the Greenwood were still a thing not to be missed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yes, I know there is debate between the word "Ada" and "Adar" and that everyone goes back and forth with it. Fearing I have to choose, to you know, write a story, I am going with Ada as the informal "dad" and Adar as the more formal "Father." I actually like adding the word because I feel like it adds depth, versus being a sort of weeaboism. Again, just my choice. I don't ask you to agree, just to accept! (lol.dictatorship) Anyway! This chapter was a bit lighter, and Lindir ... was a much needed dose of humor. Don't worry, I love him. That's why I pick on him :3
> 
> I would also like to add that I'm really not into criticism. Some things mentioned here are head-canon and not perfectly true to Tolkien. I'm writing this story for my own entertainment. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't, well, no one is making you read it and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Beta Credit: All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
> Zeta Reader: All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond begins to fade to his grief. Who will heal the healer? A story of things lost, and found.

 

 **Chapter Four:**  
  
      “Elros?”  
  
Lindir stroked his lord's confused brow, then patted it with a damp cloth. “A nightmare,” the singer said quietly. “You had a fell dream.”  
  
Elrond's gaze was unfocused and shaken. “Elros … Cold … I am so cold,” he breathed in reply, voice raspy with disuse.  
  
Lindir moved the black velvet cloak over his master, tucking it against Elrond's cheek; and then laid a second, heavier blanket over that. The healer was shivering violently.  
  
“Lindir, my Lord. Though I would bring him to you were I able to defeat death with my song,” the minstrel corrected.  
  
Elrond's gray eyes considered the fabric beneath his hands where he clutched at it. “Lindir?” the Lord of Imladris echoed. He was aware of his minstrel as if for the first time. The musician looked drawn, and there was a scratch at his ear that had been covered with a bandage. He also carried himself with a stiffness of posture that spoke of hurt. It was something a good healer would easily pick up on.  
  
“Yes, my Lord. I am here,” Lindir repeated, putting a comforting hand on his master's shoulder.  
  
“I dreamed that …” Gray eyes grew sharper. Elrond knew the cloak that he held in his arms. He knew the scent that clung to it. “Where have I been? Where is Maglor?” he whispered. “Or did I dream that, too?”  
  
“You did not dream of him, my Lord. You wandered in your sleep. While I tried my best to keep watch over you, you slipped away. When I realized you were missing, I followed your trail deep into the Trollshaws; but it was Maglor that found you first, and protected you when I could not,” Lindir stated. He chose to leave out the part about trying to kill the other minstrel; it had been an honest mistake made in anger and fear.  
  
Elrond tried to sit up at that, but his body protested and the musician ended up helping him to lie back down. His lord still looked confused.  
  
“He is alive?” the peredhel asked. “Really and truly?”  
  
The question was childish and soft, one that Lindir might have expected from a younger Arwen or Elrohir. “Yes, my Lord. Are you still cold? Shall I start a fire?” the minstrel asked. He would have said more, but then chilly hands were stroking his face, pulling him closer to brush over his wounded ear.  
  
The bard froze at that, not sure what to do.  
  
Elrond's gray eyes searched Lindir's anxious expression. “You were injured?”  
  
“Only a few scratches, my Lord, and I am still tired from carrying you; but that was my honor as well as my duty,” he said with a blush. “I am grateful that you are well.”  
  
Centuries of looking after his master culminated in that moment, and Lindir finally admitted the truth to himself. He loved … he loved … The color at his cheeks deepened. There was no time for such unbidden thoughts, only time for responsibility. He would show his devotion the only way he should. Here and now, through song and care.  
  
He tried to pull away, but he could not make himself. The slightest of touches, the briefest of attentions … it made his heart yearn for more. Yet never could he entertain the thought of anything greater than this. Never, when this delicate and powerful being was not his to hold. A lowly minstrel was not worthy of such a thing; or so he told himself.  
  
“Lindir?” Elrond asked. “I am sorry to have put you in such a position. Have I embarrassed you?” The peredhel finally let go, but then his hands were patting down shoulders and neck, checking for wounds the other might not have voiced worry over. He had seen the singer's blush, and even confused and exhausted had thought it of note.  
  
It took a few moments, but when Elrond finally determined that Lindir was unharmed, (but for aching muscles and a tattered ear that was fast mending) he lay his head back to the pillow with a sigh of relief. “Glorfindel has tended your hurts, has he not? And yes … a fire, if you please,” he asked through chattering teeth.  
  
Lindir nodded as he backed away from the bed, hand over his heart; his expression a mixture of reluctance and relief. And with ease born of years of practice, he quickly started a fire in the fireplace. Then, when a small blaze was crackling away merrily, he located a heavy dressing robe from his master's closet; placing it on a nearby chair in case Elrond should desire it. Any time an elf was cold, it was never a good sign. But the minstrel was eager to be given something, anything, he could do to help.  
  
When his lord made a weary gesture to the bed beside him, the singer made his way back to his side, perching in his usual place at the edge of the nearest cushion. He was both determined to comfort the peredhel … and not say a word about Glorfindel or his errand.  
  
“Now, tell me everything that I have missed, and everything that you can remember?” The peredhel asked. “I need to hear it.”  
  
Lindir flinched.  
  
~*~  
  
      Erestor rested a hand on Elrohir's shoulder while the young sire stood frozen in the doorway. Elladan was already sitting on the edge of their father's bed, but the younger twin did not even seem capable of entering his father's chambers. He was the most passionate of all of Elrond's children, and while strong in times of crisis, did not do as well in situations of prolonged suffering. He was subtly trembling; his expression unreadable. For he had lost his mother, had barely had time to grieve her; and now he feared he would lose his father as well. The councilor could not blame him for his upset.  
  
Elrond looked drawn and pale in the low light of the bedchamber he had once shared with Celebrían, and he was still curled around the cloak that Maglor had left him. He would respond to small things from time to time, but his heart had been broken in a way no herb could cure.  
  
Silently, the Ñoldo prayed for Glorfindel's errand to be a success. He did not know how much longer his master could hold out without hope. The peredhel still feared that what Maglor had told Lindir was a dream, and often he wept; not only for his wife, but his brother and his two adoptive fathers.  
  
“Go to him,” Erestor murmured. “Go on, your sister managed to coax him into eating.” The councilor was doing his best to reassure everyone; thought he kept looking between a wilted Lindir, who sat at his harp playing quietly, and a nervous Arwen, who lay in bed beside her father while smoothing the blankets over his back.  
  
The peredhel's children were trying so desperately to reach him.  
  
When Arwen looked up to her youngest brother, shaking her head and beginning to weep out of frustration; Elrohir finally crept over the threshold. And making his way nervously into the room to lie down beside his sister, he pulled her tenderly against his chest, draping an arm inclusively over her _and_ their father. Catching on, Elladan imitated the gesture on the opposite side. The twins then cradled Arwen and Elrond protectively between them, holding them together. Holding their _family_ together. And this time, the Lord of Imladris did not object or try to drive them away.  
  
Even Erestor could not be certain if the peredhel's lack of objection was a sign of improvement or loss. He did know that, at least for the children, this was better. No matter how long or short it might be, they needed time with their father. And while Elrond seemed to be too weak to move, his eyes did flutter open as he curled closer to Arwen, touching her face apologetically.

At that, Lindir's hands finally falter at the harp; for today had been filled with bittersweet but devoted gestures, this one being the saddest of them all. And taking pity on the minstrel, Erestor relieve him of his duties for the remainder of the night. This was met with quiet but vehement objection that the councilor would hear naught of. He knew the singer had been running himself ragged, and that he needed to eat, bathe, and sleep; though the adviser doubted any would find much comfort in Imladris this eve. Himself included. Because it was impossible for an elf to stop caring, and even harder for one to step back and take a rest when it felt like so much was at stake.  
  
He empathized with Lindir. And he knew that, despite the fact he had more-or-less shoved the musician into the hall and slammed the door, the forlorn singer had stood there for a very long time. No doubt trying to reconcile with himself while staring at the pattern of the wood grain. Unfortunately, even the most logical of minds could be overridden by the heart. And that was something Erestor understood far more intimately than he wanted to. Especially when he heard Lindir's near-silent footfalls trailing sadly away.  
  
~*~  
  
      Lindir stood out on the balcony of his rooms while the rain poured down. Vaguely he comprehended that he was keeping vigil, though for what he could not be certain. He found himself watching the bridges, fingertips tapping along the stone railing, ghosting a song about rain and sorrow as his heart ached.  
  
Even when _he_ had married _her_ , even when the minstrel had shared the joy of his lord's family; not once had he thought himself worthy of such a place as the lady's. He loved Elrond, yes. He loved him in a way he could not explain, nor even sing about. Even now he could still feel his touch upon his face, the concern …  
  
He shivered, wrapping his arms around his chest. He had never been so alone. He had barely eaten; he hadn't even been tempted by the thought of a hot bath. It physically hurt to leave his lord's side. The storm had begun to worsen, but still he did not look away, watching the mighty Bruinen roar and froth against her banks beneath the bridge.  
  
“Lindir!” The voice was sharp, and irritated enough for him to think his name had been called more than once.  
  
He turned, dark hair wet and tangled around his face, robes matted flat to a form that grew as thin as his master's from strain and lack of rest.  
  
He must not have locked the doors to his chambers; for there stood Erestor.  
  
It grew late. Very late.  
  
The other Ñoldo tilted his head at him, as if trying to decide what he should say. Lindir knew that no words could explain why he was standing in the downpour when he could have been inside, and perfectly dry.  
  
“Let me help,” Erestor finally said, giving the very same bridge one last look in the gloam of early nightfall.  
  
Lindir's eyes followed the councilor's just before a warm and dry cloak was settled around his shoulders. Then Erestor was guiding the embarrassed minstrel toward the bath house with clean robes and towels in tow. They both needed some warmth and rest. It had been a long day.  
  
~*~  
  
      'Help' had been forcing the minstrel to wash thoroughly, and then submit to a cup of hot spiced wine while soaking in the spring. Erestor had not pressed interaction beyond that, but the singer had gradually moved closer until their knees touched where they sat side-by-side in the steaming pools. The bath house was covered, but outside the rain roared. It sounded melancholic, and even the river made lonely murmurings without its master's guidance.  
  
The watercourse wasn't the only thing missing someone this night.  
  
Normally the councilor would have shared this rainy evening with Glorfindel, close and warm and comfortable. But the golden warrior was off on a fool’s errand trying to save Elrond … because Erestor had pleaded with him to try. And the seneschal had been gone for some time now; so his beloved was growing all the more fearful by the day, though he would not admit it.  
  
Imladris was more vulnerable by the second as well, and without her true master, nor her champion, the darkness crept inexorably closer.  
  
Erestor knew that he was being selfish to interfere in Lindir's grief; but of late he could barely breathe when he woke to an empty bed in the morning. And at night, he wept himself to sleep holding Glorfindel's pillow close. The councilor's post was fraught with amazing amounts of personal responsibility, yet he was unused to facing it all alone. Even if he normally seemed aloof, he needed someone close as much as Lindir did; and perhaps he was helping for all the wrong reasons, but at least he was doing something productive. Losing the minstrel just might destroy what was left of Elrond's hope.  
  
As if reading his thoughts, Lindir finally broke the silence between them. “We are both selfish and cowardly, are we not?” he asked, voice smooth and sweet despite the innumerable days of pain.  
  
“Undoubtedly,” the councilor admitted.  
  
“Your heart no longer sings, either?” the minstrel whispered, a tremble in his tone.  
  
“No, the songs have died. Even within Imladris, the pulse of the land, of the magics that sustain us … they grow feeble,” Erestor lamented.  
  
“Will you forgive that I have no joy within me but what last comforts I might take?” Lindir asked the councilor.  
  
“There is nothing to forgive. That is why I brought you here. We both guard the guttering flame of this city, and the last of the light of Gondolin. We both … do so alone. It is not an easy burden to bear.”  
  
Lindir slid further down into the water until the back of his head rested against the masonry at the edge of the pool. “We may not sing this night, but we must withstand. I feel the dawn will bring with it new hope. Nothing is gone yet, even though it feels like it. I do not know how long I might fight, and certainly my heart is heavy, my hands fumbling with the weight of grief, but there must be a song. Even if I must write a sad one ...” the minstrel trailed off.  
  
He looked to Erestor, then, connecting for the first time in nearly an hour. Honey brown eyes were soulful and lost, and the councilor sighed. “Come, rest would do us good,” he said reluctantly, rising from the spring. “And just for this night, I will sleep by your side. I cannot bear my own chambers any more than you can time away from our lord.” The words were an apology, and a demand in one.  
  
Both knew the gesture had nothing to do with being unfaithful, and even Lindir knew Glorfindel would have approved had he been consulted.  
  
The minstrel took a nervous breath, and then stood from the water. “Just this night … one night not alone?” It was a question, but the look on his face was raw and aching.  
  
~*~  
  
      Before dawn, Lindir had risen. He left Erestor curled up in the warm indent his body had made in the blankets. The two elves had slept forehead to forehead for the majority of their time together, and both had managed a few hours of rest; though once the minstrel had woken to wipe tears from the sleeping councilor's face.  
  
The singer would have stayed until his friend had woken, but he was glad to allow him the chance to sleep in for an hour or two. Himself? He was not allotted such a luxury. Nor did he want it.  
  
He had then gone to seen the lord's children off for the day; comforting Arwen's fears, and Elrohir and Elladan's uncertainty. All three had needed direction, so before they departed he gave them tasks that would ease some weight from Erestor's shoulders. It wasn't that he was in a position to order them about, but when they had asked for suggestions on what to do with their time to best help their father … the minstrel could think of nothing but supporting the other Ñoldo.  
  
~*~  
  
      Lindir had just finished washing Elrond's face, and was in the middle of combing and braiding his hair, when he heard a commotion from the courtyard. There was a great fanfare, and the shouts of warriors stirring. At first, fear gripped the musician, and he reached for one of the weapons adorning the walls. He had just taken a short sword down, and was debating whether he should try to ford the river carrying his master, or if he should wedge a chair under the door and hope for the best; when something familiar caught his eye outside the archways.  
  
Asfaloth, as brilliant white as ever, and astride him a triumphant looking Glorfindel. Behind the Seneschal, a party of Silvan elves rode. In their midst was something that almost stopped the faithful attendant's heart.  
  
The musician had some experience with Thranduil in the past, indirect though it might have been; but in this moment he felt nothing but disdain. Some relief, some hope … but mostly contempt. The King of Greenwood was a notoriously reclusive braggart with a wounded ego. And more than once Lindir had mentally compared him to a terrified child playing house. The Sinda had been been just that when he had first taken power, so it was hard to stop seeing him in such a light.  
  
The singer knew that Thranduil had to have matured with time. That he had become a powerful warrior. That he was cunning, and that he knew well how to manipulate those around him to his will. Compared to his sire Oropher, he was practically refreshing.  
  
Luckily for Lindir, there was no rule that said he had to like him.  
  
But Glorfindel had gotten them this far, and Lindir was not ready to give up. Whatever would help his master, he would do.  
  
Anything at all.  
  
~*~  
  
      The moment the King of Greenwood had been settled with his attendants, Glorfindel had immediately set off to find Erestor. The warrior had stopped to answer no other questions once their guest was attended to, and had come directly to find the councilor.  
  
Erestor had been in the middle of a meeting with some of Imladris' provisioners when the door flew open. The golden warrior stood there proudly, knowing he had made an entrance and startled everyone in the room (including his mate, who had dropped the quill he had been writing with).  
  
But then the councilor did not care who saw, or what anyone else might say. He nearly tipped his chair over and tripped over his robes in his haste to throw his arms around Glorfindel, shaking and weeping as he did.  
  
“Never go again!” he gasped, dignity forgotten even as he buried his face into the side of the golden elf's neck. Armor kept them further apart than he would have liked, but bravely he tightened his arms around his lover's shoulders, holding him fiercely and trying not to collapse. “You are safe … oh you are safe,” he breathed, feeling like his universe had righted itself again.  
  
He didn't ask about the journey, he didn't ask about Thranduil. He just cared that Glorfindel had returned. And for the first time in many nights … he began to feel secure again.  
  
~*~  
  
      Lindir stepped aside grudgingly as Thranduil entered the bedchamber. The minstrel bowed deeply, but his gaze was only for his master. He did not want a Sinda here, and certainly not so close in a space that was sacred to Elrond. He did not want him to touch his sleeping lord; and though he did his best to hide it, his surliness was noted by the king. Truth be told it was rather hard to miss. Thankfully, his disgruntlement only earned him a knowing smirk. Which made Lindir hate Thranduil all the more.  
  
There were no niceties with the Silvan king, as the bard was quick to learn, and Thranduil wasted no more time with the others in the room before he was striding over to the bed like he owned ... everything. It was in this instant that Lindir was thankful that Elrond was sleeping again, and no one had been able to rouse him. He didn't want him to be aware of any of this. And mercifully he wasn't ...  
  
The peredhel was gaunt and pale, and the Sinda only observed him at first. His hands were behind his back as he leaned forward, tilting his head as he studied the fallen healer. Then he leaned back with a sigh and shook his head.  
  
“You must forgive that I did not send my condolences. I did not learn of this travesty until a few short days ago. I thought that perhaps such tardy sentiments might be better conveyed in person,” Thranduil stated; even though Glorfindel and Erestor who stood behind him didn't seem to believe him any more than the next elf.  
  
Thranduil's words were not for them, though. Nor for them to judge.  
  
The elf-king then sat to the edge of the bed, his pale hair so long it pooled against the dark sheets; and reaching out, he stroked a hand across Elrond's troubled brow. “You are not so far gone. You only need to remember what you are living for,” the Sinda sighed.  
  
Lindir glowered. Did the idiot seriously believe the entirety of Imladris, and Maglor himself, had not tried to convey that same damned sentiment? Did he not know just how much their lord had needed Celebrían? How could someone who had faced the evil of the Dark Lord, and done so by himself, say such glib things?  
  
“The Darkness wants you to give up, it is counting on you doing so. Once you rescind your power, once you cast aside your Ring ... what a place to hold in the coming war! Would you truly give up your city as easily as your mother cast herself into the sea?” Thranduil baited, his tone certain that someone was left in the faded form before him.  
  
The others present weren't so sure, to their shame. But they let him continue despite his blasphemy.  
  
There was something reassuring about his confidence, even if it was the hubris of a fool.  
  
“Elrond, you would not let me lie down and give up, and so help me, if I do not get to, neither do you,” the king said darkly. He waited for a goodly length of time for an answer, stroking brow and rubbing lightly at ribs like he might a wounded animal, but to no avail.  
  
The more time that passed without any sort of result, the further Thranduil's brow creased in disapproval. “Very well then, there will be consequences,” the Sinda said, his tone like that of a disapproving father speaking to an unruly son.  
  
Before anyone could stop him, he rose and unceremoniously picked Elrond up. Tossing him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, he headed toward the door amongst sounds of vehement protest from all elves present.  
  
“Where, exactly, do you think you are taking him?” Erestor demanded, hands on his hips.  
  
Thranduil gave the councilor a knowing smirk.  
  
“To the river,” he said, as if that explained everything.  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Enter the Peacock King. Enjoy~
> 
> If you are commenting: I'm really not into criticism. Some things mentioned here are head-canon and not perfectly true to Tolkien. I'm writing this story for my own entertainment. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't, well, no one is making you read it and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Beta Credit: All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
> Zeta Reader: All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond begins to fade to his grief. Who will heal the healer? A story of things lost, and found.

 

 **Chapter Five:**  
  
      There had been darkness and warmth. Elrond had been floating peacefully for so long ... and then the healing shadows around him shattered into icy tendrils. He took a gasp of water instead of air and his back arched in shock. Everything he had known, the safe past he had been clinging to in his mind? It splintered into a thousand pieces. Drowning. He was drowning, and he did not know what was real and what was a dream!  
  
He forced his eyes open in the blue-green murk, and struggled upward; caught between swimming and clutching at something that was reaching down beneath the tempest. A hand. He could grasp it if he could just get closer! Water foamed around him, silver bubbles escaping to the surface, and Elrond followed them, the dull roar of a familiar river in his ears ...  
  
Above him he could finally see a face wavering. A face he knew. He reached out desperately, clasping on to a strong wrist as a fist twisted in the cowl of his robes; pulling him up and out of the churn. Suddenly there was air, sound, light, and confusing brightness. And the peredhel had never been more baffled in his life.  
  
Thranduil? _Was_ this a dream?  
  
The Lord of Imladris was dangling, half into the river and half above it. Both of the healer’s hands still clasped desperately onto the blond elf's wrist. His hair was stuck to the sides of his face, and his expression was both shocked and frightened. He was trying to make sense of anything and everything at once, and failing. He couldn't think … but he could feel. He was cold. So very cold, and at last he took the long, deep breath that he had been struggling for.  
  
“Thranduil?” he gasped, coughing out the name of the elf before him.  
  
Vaguely the peredhel remembered a night long ago. An instant that was lost and gone. The hands that held him now had held him then, and had sparked such passion. There had been warmth in the dark, the caress of silk and fur, the spill of golden hair across his skin ... and promises of better days. A balm from a time when he could still let someone in, from an era when he could … feel. And back then, he had hurt. Hurt so very much. It hurt again, didn't it?  
  
He could feel _pain_ … how long had that been in coming? How long had he been blank and empty, and what had he become? He did not know, and so he looked to Thranduil for help.  
  
Blue eyes that had been cold and severe became minutely warmer as Elrond's gaze met them.  
  
“How does it feel, Peredhel?” That pretentious voice whispered. “How does it feel, to know that I could have slain you. _You_. The _chosen_ of Gil-galad.”  
  
Elrond didn't know what to say; he was still being buffeted by the river's current, and shivering he clung to that wrist; hands gradually slipping. Helplessly he dipped back below the water once more, continuing to try to feebly claw his way from the current beneath him.  
  
A second hand joined the first, and this time, Thranduil hauled him further from the water, rising to his knees to dangle the coughing and confused half-elf above the froth.  
  
“I asked you how it felt. How does it feel?” Thranduil whispered, a brow raised curiously.  
  
Elrond could not look away from those blue eyes, from the memory of the passion between them. Time … it had nearly stolen everything away. The thoughts, the feeling of being whole again after being so badly battered. His lips trembled with cold, and then he closed his eyes, not able to stand it any longer.  
  
“Terrible,” the healer whispered hoarsely. “It feels terrible.”  
  
With that, the Sinda turned his head with a sigh, (whether in anger or relief it was impossible to tell) and wrestled Elrond the rest of the way from the Bruinen. Thranduil let go of him, then, looking away and above to the city that surrounded them; ignoring the peredhel choking up water in the grass. The two elves, one kneeling and one sprawled, found themselves in the shade of the Great Bridge of Imladris; and a curtain of flowers spilled down from above them, blocking them from the view of most.  
  
They were alone, but for three other elves who stood further off. Said elves had rather suddenly gone quiet and still. Erestor was frozen in the act of using his entire body to stop Glorfindel from rushing to their lord's aid, and Glorfindel was holding a seething Lindir in a headlock. Who was restraining who, and in what order such an occurrence may have happened in … might have been debatable, but all three of them had ceased their struggles at the first words they had heard from Elrond in some time.  
  
“Leave us,” Thranduil said haughtily.  
  
He was not referring to the healer in the grass beside him.  
  
Glorfindel and Erestor stiffened at the command. It was from a voice that was not their master's, and for the briefest of seconds the two shared a look from the corner of their eyes. Neither liked being manhandled thus, and the order made Lindir begin to mutter words that would have made the bawdiest of sailors blush.  
  
But they knew now. They knew that they were truly of no help, hate it though they did.  
  
“As you wish,” Glorfindel said, deep voice holding the slightest of threats.  
  
“We will be near, if you need us,” Erestor followed, his words just as much a promise of retribution if Elrond was harmed.  
  
The two elves then wisely didn't give Lindir a chance to reply. Instead, Erestor covered the minstrel's mouth. And Glorfindel released his grip, only to bodily carry the musician away before he could try to defend his master's honor.  
  
~*~  
  
      Elrond had begun to shudder, chilled from the river and shade. And gradually, Thranduil moved closer until he was peering down into the grass. There, a very miserable pair of gray eyes met his. “You feel the cold, do you not?” he asked.  
  
The peredhel frowned at that.  
  
“Then you are not trying hard enough,” the Woodland King continued, reaching out to brush Elrond's cheek with his thumb.  
  
The healer flinched from the contact, forcing himself upright and away even though he trembled. And he made a sound of outrage while trying to resettle his soaked robes.  
  
“You would not have me touch you? Am I truly that repulsive?” Thranduil asked with a chuckle.  
  
“None shall do such a thing without asking my leave!” Elrond spat, suddenly very angry. “Especially someone who throws me into the Bruinen in the middle of my lands!” No, he was not pleased at all. The anger had cleared his head a little, and at least now he remembered where he was. (And that he had been sleeping, until someone had rather rudely tossed him into a river.)  
  
Thranduil smiled the annoying smile of a man who had won the game before moving the first chess piece. He tried to touch the peredhel's face again, and this time the elf-lord batted his hand away, brow arching.  
  
“Why are you here?” Elrond glowered. “What are you after?” The two were familiar enough, and the peredhel was irritable enough, that diplomacy fell by the wayside. He was normally more conciliatory of an elf, but right now he was in no mood for any sort of power struggle.  
  
“Oh, the usual,” Thranduil said, humor in his tone.  
  
“I find no joy in those words,” Elrond grit in return.  
  
“Would you like me to say I am here to assume your position, should you fade? Or perhaps I should say … it is a Ring that I want? Or less likely yet, would you believe I am here to see that you get well, and if I can be of any help to you and yours?”  
  
Elrond stifled another cough, and then wiped his face and mouth on his sleeve. He could barely sit up, and he wanted nothing but to go back to sleep. “No, and I find the latter most fearsome of all.” He smirked, anger easing for a heartbeat.  
  
“Oh good. For the latter? That is why I am here. It came to my attention that you were dying, and that those that love you could not reach you. And if you remember, I made you a promise long ago ...”  
  
This time Thranduil was much faster than the healer, and he caught him by the jaw; holding him fast.  
  
Elrond began to feebly struggle at that, pride rankled even though the gesture was not particularly painful, nor was it rough. “Do not touch me!” he hissed.  
  
“You keep saying that, but why? I have touched you before. I have more than touched you. I have taken your body, stroked you inside and out. I have held you while you lost yourself in my hands, willingly … desperately. Love, no … but there was light between us. Have you forgotten? Or is it that you think yourself unworthy?” Thranduil whispered, his very tone enough to make the peredhel shiver.  
  
Elrond bit back a groan. It had been so long. So long since he had been approached in such a manner. “Only she may hold me!” he said, pulling away, drawing back from his feelings and desire with the last bit of desperate loyalty and strength in his body.  
  
And Thranduil let him go.  
  
It was true that over time elves lost interest in sex, but that did not mean that longing or passion died completely. Even when the love of their life was gone.  
  
“She? She who was so broken she could no longer love you? She who took her own life so that you did not have to live in emptiness in the time until you sailed? She who could no longer keep her promise, and so she released you from yours? You did what you could, but you cannot change her, nor take her place!”  
  
This made Elrond stiffen in outrage again. He wanted more than anything to hit the elf before him. He would have liked to have made him eat his words; and mentally he was cursing him. But it was true. It was true, and Thranduil knew it. And that was why he was smiling so wistfully, and that was why … why he had dared to have said it. Thranduil had _lived_ those words.  
  
There was sympathy in those blue eyes. Sympathy, and understanding, and an echoing anger. And this time, when the Sinda pulled Elrond close, when he captured his face in his hands, the half-elf did not fight. And when those soft lips met his, he did not pull away.  
  
At first the healer did not know what to do with himself. He felt clumsy, lost, and disloyal; but something that had been sleeping within him awoke at the kiss. The part that remembered what it was like to give and to take and to … feel. Anger gave him strength, and that anger sparked … passion. It might have surprised him had he not been so desperate.  
  
He felt the brush of lips like there had been nothing before Thranduil, and nothing after. Like light, and life, and hope. And when the gesture deepened, when a warm tongue slid along his lower lip, he opened to it; hands fisting into warm gold. The motion was both enraged and frantic, and as that solid chest pressed against his own, and those strong hands returned the gesture into Elrond's own wet tangles, the peredhel sobbed.  
  
He had wept before, several times, but those had been silent tears. Not once had he fully let the grief out. He had feared that it would drown him, destroy him, or hurt those closest to him. But it was loosed now, and there was nothing he could do to hold it back any longer. When the kiss finally ended, when Thranduil had embraced him, letting him slump to his shoulder and bury his face into the side of his neck; that was when Elrond cried out.  
  
The sounds leaving him were inhuman and wounded, half-screams and half-sobs. The blond elf holding him did not flinch, nor did he move away. He held him fast and he never let go, no matter how ugly and raw the grief was between them. And Elrond wept his anger, pain, and abandonment into arms that understood how it felt, arms that could not prevent, but could support. He cried until his throat was raw and his eyes had swollen, and never did Thranduil leave his side.  
  
When there was nothing left, when even the emptiness was gone and the only thing remaining was a feeling of light immortality; the half-elf shuddered into silence.  
  
“Come. Come with me,” Thranduil encouraged. “I know you are weak. I know you are hungry and thirsty, and that you hurt. But walk with me. It will get easier with every step,” he said, pushing Elrond back so that the two of them could stand. Or more accurately, so that he could stand, and then lift the peredhel to his feet.  
  
~*~  
  
      Lindir was beyond upset.  
  
Erestor held him tightly to his chest, covering the minstrel's ears to drown out the sounds of Elrond's suffering. And Glorfindel held them both in one very enthusiastic embrace, trying to keep them calm.  
  
It was said that all things had to hurt before they could heal.  
  
Logic said that anger and pain were necessary parts of grieving, and that Elrond had to work through them. That this was tremendous progress. But for the tender heart of an elf … it was agonizing. Especially for Lindir.  
  
Erestor had not given it full acknowledgment before this moment; but it had become clear in the way the minstrel cried silently against his robes. Lindir loved Elrond. Far beyond fealty, and far beyond the passion of a lover. Selflessly, the musician had given all he had, time and again.  
  
Now, the Lord of Imladris and a lowly musician's fates were entwined, and there was no real way to stop the inevitable. Even the lady had surely known. She would not have left without being certain that her husband would be loved, comforted, and cared for.  
  
The councilor felt guilt at calling on Thranduil to help Elrond. He now fully understood why this whole ordeal was destroying his friend, too. It had been the right thing to do. But, oh, to hear and not be able to comfort … to know that another elf touched their lord, and one that the musician did not much care for, either.  
  
It had to have been agony twice over.  
  
The others of the city were not deaf, and they had begun to gather around without meaning to. They kept the same private vigil as their councilor, minstrel, and seneschal; not caring to invade, but ready to help in any way they could. No one who lived within Imladris was of poor character. And it seemed only the good willed ever stayed within her walls.  
  
“It will be well. I swear to you, if I must make it come true, I shall,” Glorfindel said protectively.  
  
Erestor didn't know if that promise had been for himself, for Lindir, or for all of Rivendell. He supposed it could be for no less.  
  
~*~  
  
      Thranduil had not led Elrond into Imladris, but outside of her walls and into the Trollshaws. There was something important that he had to show him, something he knew instinctively would be there. This was not his forest, but it was a forest, still.  
  
It was not a truly wise move, to bring such a wounded being so far from comfort; but most things that had to be done were not necessarily sagacious. Even the people of Imladris must have known this, for the very guards at the gates had not questioned Thranduil; nor the terrible state that their lord was in. They had also turned a blind eye to anything they might have heard or seen previously. Or at least, the elf-king hoped. He fought the urge to look back at the city, then, as he was not there to mourn the loss of his own lands. He was there for a certain half-elf. One that he quickly spared a glance.  
  
Elrond was keeping pace with him, regardless of his condition. The healer was unsteady, but he grew stronger by the minute for the fresh air and life surrounding him. He was still wet from the river, but despite the chill of the day the sun was drying his hair and robes quickly. This made Thranduil smile. All was not lost.  
  
      They had not gone far when the blond elf found something almost as good as his original vision. That thing was a hive of torpid bees who were tricked out of a portion of honeycomb, which the elf-king then encouraged Elrond to eat.  
  
At first the peredhel had declined, but once the blond elf had smeared the slightest of tastes on his lower lip, the healer had eaten what he was offered with a desperate will. When he had paused for air, the last bite swallowed, those tired gray eyes had closed and he became still. It was if he heard music that no other could, and he was intent on it.  
  
Thranduil moved closer to him at that, until they were nearly touching where they sat on a fallen tree trunk. He had known the honey would help. It was the mead of the healer's very lands, and it had been something familiar, grounding, and soothing. “Can you hear it again? Surely you do, for it is no mere whisper as it has become amongst my own trees,” he asked.  
  
Elrond blinked his eyes open at that, a look of small wonder on his face. “I can hear it … the water … the forest,” he said, looking surprised.  
  
“I told you that you were not dead yet. You no longer shiver,” the king said, observing the changes in the dark-haired elf. The color was returning to those once-pale lips, and the blush of pink from the strength of the early fall sun stained white skin. Beyond the physical, Thranduil could feel it. He could see it. Weak, but there. A spark.  
  
Elrond said nothing in reply. He did not need to; and Thranduil was not pushing, despite his normally imperious nature.  
  
The elf-king sat patiently, studying the same trees and sky that the healer beside him did. “Gil-galad was right,” he began. “The heart within you is as gentle as an elf-maiden's, and as enduring as the kings of men.” It was as close to a compliment as Thranduil ever gave.  
  
Elrond had just turned to say something evasive in reply, when the blond elf cut him off by standing up again. “Come, there is one more thing that you need to see,” he said. “And then we shall return. When we do, I would enjoy a soak in your famous baths, if you would not mind escorting me?” he asked while telling.  
  
Elrond snorted at him, but he grudgingly followed, licking the honey from his lips. The touch of Thranduil's soft fingertip against his mouth was just as close as the aftertaste of the comb. He was trying not to think about that. It was … he didn't know what it was, exactly. It was there, though. His own heartbeat, the pulse of the earth beneath his feet, the tingle of magic and life. It wasn't gone from the world just because he had lost his way.  
  
~*~  
  
      There was drunk, and then there was Lindir. It took a great deal of alcohol to get an elf intoxicated. And so Erestor expected, as sloppy as the minstrel was, that he had gotten started on the task the moment he had reassured Glorfindel (and himself) that he would be 'fine'; and 'wished to pen a few verses in privacy'.  
  
With a bottle of Dorwinion. Or three.  
  
Mercifully, he at least seemed to be happy ... now. Though he might not have been come morning, had Glorfindel not made an errand of procuring one of the many hangover medicines lined up among the phials and jars in the healer's ward.  
  
Getting the musician to drink the cure was another matter.  
  
The minstrel was in high spirits, and more than once had complained to Erestor that he was 'hot' and had tried to remove his robes. Thankfully, the singer was easily distracted. Of course, this meant that Erestor may or may not have found himself telling bedtime stories in the late afternoon; while Glorfindel kept putting the overly-cozy elf back beneath the blankets every time he got up and asked for another glass of wine.  
  
There were more important things to do than this. But thankfully, everyone in Elrond's house seemed to have found something to occupy themselves with that was equally mundane. And the councilor was grateful for that.  
  
So far he and Glorfindel had also managed to avoid the master's children, or having to tell them any of the more pertinent details of the day.  
  
Erestor did not expect that to last, either.  
  
~*~  
  
      Thranduil knelt among a tall growth of ferns, already knowing what he would find. He had seen it in his mind's eye; Imladris' master was not the only elf with the gift of foresight. Elrond had begun to lag further behind him, uncertain, but the blond elf ignored that for the time being. She was here, right where he had known she would be.  
  
He shifted his position, then reached out to push aside some of the taller and feathery ferns.  
  
Nestled amongst the brush was a tangle of long limbs, dappled spots, and stripes. Then the smallest and most delicate of faces turned up to study him. The slight creature was otherwise unmoving, perfectly still and waiting for its mother to return. Pale blond lashes surrounded limpid pools of trust. Dark, and seemingly infinite with faith.  
  
The Silvan king gestured to Elrond, who finally approached and knelt beside him. As he did, the half-elf's eyes went wide with reverence. It did not matter how many times one saw a fawn in the wild. It was always awe inspiring.  
  
“My people believe that the stag brings into the life of those who experience it, a renewal of energies, awareness of the spirit, and a reminder that one survives change in their life, not by force, but by accepting all aspects of a situation absolutely. They guide and heal,” Thranduil said. His voice was so soft and respectful that Elrond could not help but to feel the same veneration the other did for the beast.  
  
He knew that to the Silvan elves, deer were to be protected and revered, as were their elk. Not long ago he had been chasing just such a creature himself. But what did it mean? Was this what the vision had been about? He did not know. He did not get to contemplate it for any length of time, though, as Thranduil interrupted his thoughts by taking his hand. “This one has been waiting for you, for your help. She has been resting here for some time.”  
  
That was when Elrond smelled the scent of fresh blood. A leg that was tucked beneath the fawn had been injured by a predator, and his heart nearly skipped a beat. “Give, and you shall receive,” Thranduil said, placing the peredhel's palm lightly against the creature's back.  
  
The sensation of new life, of light … it was just as strong as the energy that had clung to the elf-king earlier, and the healer blinked back tears. He lived because he was to make a difference. Even in something this small. It was why he had chosen immortality while his brother had chosen the opposite. Worse yet, those that needed him had patiently been waiting for him … while he had wasted away in the agony of helplessness.  
  
He concentrated, then. He was so very weak, but the wound was small enough. This he could mend. This was a start. This was something, no matter how insignificant, that he could change.  
  
~*~  
  
      Elrond sat in the springs, hair up and out of the water, a glass of Miruvor in his hand. He had drunk half of it, and had begun to look drowsy. He had eaten, and eaten enthusiastically. Fresh fruits and a hearty stew had been downed in the course of a brief political discussion with Thranduil. That course had then been followed up with breads, cheeses, and more drink. One would almost have thought the kitchens were fighting a determined uphill battle with the peredhel's waistline, or lack thereof. Actually, the elf king knew they were, and appreciated the assistance.  
  
Of course, this meant that the Lord of Imladris was now well and truly sleepy, and ready to retire. Thranduil himself was weary, though he suspected that this night would not see him sleeping alone. More or less this entire evening had been planned, and that became abundantly clear as a servant told him that Elrond's quarters were ready for them both. The minstrel that never left his master's side was also noticeably absent, which the elf-king, knowing little of Elrond's routine, still found suspect; but he stayed silent on the matter. The peredhel had gained ground today in leaps and bounds, and it would be a shame to upset that victory now. Tomorrow might not come as easily, and so he would take his triumphs where he might.  
  
~*~  
  
      They had been left alone. Elrond's hair hung loose about his shoulders, and it had been freshly brushed and tamed with herb water. Thranduil smiled. The peredhel was fair to behold in his night clothes, that much was certain. To see him not crumpled, alert, and even somewhat relaxed? That was better yet.  
  
The King of Greenwood was wearing a borrowed set of robes, and already he had perched to the edge of the bed. He was tired. He had traveled hard and fast; and the chill of fall left him anxious for a warm body close to his own. That much he could not be faulted for.  
  
There was a small fire burning in the hearth, and the temperature was certainly pleasant enough.  
Still ... the Lord of Imladris was silent and distant. And not taking the hint to join him.  
  
Thranduil studied the other, reading the fear and desire as easily as he might in any virgin, though Elrond was nothing of the sort. He himself had seen to that. “What do you fear?” he finally asked the healer, breaking the silence.  
  
“I have never been unfaithful to my wife before,” Elrond said, the words simple and painfully honest.  
  
“I do not expect you to lie with me in that fashion unless you desire it,” Thranduil admitted. He could have any that he wanted, why would he couple with someone unwilling?  
  
“The need has not left me,” the peredhel admitted, an edge of defiance to his voice.  
  
“Why should it? It has not abandoned me either, even in loss. Passion is not something to fear.” The elf-king smirked. They were not that old. Not yet.  
  
Elrond finished the last swallows of his wine, and then he turned to Thranduil. Both were exhausted, but there was no denying the attraction and need between them. The healer also remembered well that neither of them had hurt each other with intimacy, even though the opportunities had certainly been there. Would it truly be so bad to let someone in?  
  
Setting his glass down, and with one last sigh, the Lord of Imladris made his way to bed. The bed he had shared with her. He did not sit so much as he knelt beside the other, and on the edge. Then the hands of a healer sought out aching muscles from the ride, playing over skin that he knew from experience was like silk along every available inch. The elf-king was lovely on the senses, that much was for certain.  
  
When the blond elf did not object, he stroked his fingers through that thick hair; exposing the back of a lean neck that was as powerful and delicate as that of the elk the Woodland King so admired. He eased himself into the gestures of seduction; the fear leaving him as his fingertips led him into temptation, and his hands slid lower as a trail of kisses along that pale nape left him with his nose buried behind Thranduil's ear. He was breathing in the scent of crisp leaves, warm earth, and safety. He had not needed such assurances since he was much younger, but it was undeniably good to have them again now. Assurances that Thranduil was not ... her.  
  
The taller elf was accepting of the gestures. And when he felt his partner falter and slow uncertainly, he reached down to put his hands over Elrond's where they had halted; guiding them beneath his sleep robes to stroke strong muscle there. "Come now, it is only us. This time is ours, so do not hesitate. Nothing has changed." And the elf-king meant it.  
  
Elrond knew Thranduil was not her. Thranduil never would be. He did not want to replace _her_. But the half-elf did have needs, and remembering that drew a quiet sound of desperation from him.  
  
Said noise was also enough to undo several thousand years of patience; and Thranduil turned in Elrond's arms, hands untying both their robes as he stopped the massage and guided the peredhel down to the bed. “No pain tonight. No more memories except those between us,” the blond elf breathed into the peredhel's ear, not half as patient as he most likely wanted to be.  
  
And help him … as proud and self-assured as those words were, Elrond needed to hear them badly. A handful of herbal oil from the table beside the bed was more than enough to slick the space between them, and their hands. It was enough to make them both gasp when heated skin met heated skin. Just like this. Simple. Relief.  
  
Thranduil moved over the peredhel, each motion meant to bring pleasure, each touch a reassurance. The kisses they shared were brief, hot, and light. This was not as powerful as their first coupling from so long ago, and maybe there would never be time for such a thing again, but here. Now. This was all either could give.  
  
Elrond's hands were studying the elf-king like a master sculpture long-lost, and the motion of his own body was surprisingly sure and insistent. This was not about sex, it went far beyond, to a time when nights had been cold and days had been hard and full of death. When there had been but one respite from fear and anxiety.  
  
The half-elf well remembered that when they were like this, everything faded away. This evening it was not two elf-lords that moved as one in the quiet of the Imladris dusk, but two souls. Just as lost, just as broken. Just as needy; and that was the last coherent thought he had before Thranduil's hand closed firmly around them both.  
  
They could not stop, and they could not slow down; and when at last the end came, Elrond did not weep as he thought he might. Instead, he shuddered, the sound leaving him as innocent and vulnerable as the first time he had finished in the hands of another.  
  
That made Thranduil smile and press their foreheads together.  
  
This moment between them leeched the severity from the blond elf until he was as young in spirit as he had been the first time Elrond had met him. No words were said. Neither of their lost loves were mentioned, and there was no death. Just peace, and gradually slowing breathing.  
  
~*~  
  
      A bit of herb water and a dry towel later, Elrond had tangled his legs with his bed-mate’s, breathing slowing and sleepy gray eyes reluctant.  
  
“Elrond Peredhel, rest you dim-witted fool. I will be here in the morning light. You are not so easily rid of me. I've come for power, and I shall not leave without it.”  
  
If the healer heard him, he said nothing in reply, already drifting into slumber.  
  
Thranduil was groggy too, but he took a while to cover them both with a blanket. By the time he did, and had tucked the velvet cape the elf-lord seemed to so desire close, Elrond was deeply asleep. It took him longer to follow him, though, mind drifting back to a different time.  
  
Some things changed. And other things? They never would.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This was not a difficult chapter, but it was an interesting one. The longest part of it required developing a relationship and emotional connection between two equally stubborn elves, and not crushing one very tender-hearted minstrel in the process. Success ... ish. There is a certain amount of freedom in seeing elves as imperfect beings with unique strengths, weaknesses and character flaws, and that is very important to me to portray. I ... will leave you with that. And another chapter. Also, if you dodge back into previous chapters you will find I have done some updating and editing. Little stuff, but I'm always working and reworking fictions. It helps me grow as a writer. <3
> 
> I would also like to add that I'm really not into criticism. Some things mentioned here are head-canon and not perfectly true to Tolkien. I'm writing this story for my own entertainment. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't, well, no one is making you read it and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Beta Credit: All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
> Zeta Reader: All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond begins to fade to his grief. Who will heal the healer? A story of things lost, and found.

 

 **Chapter Six:**  
  
      Erestor sat on the edge of the bed he normally shared with Glorfindel. At that juncture, he wasn't letting the other join him, and the blond elf in question stood beside him, silent and uncertain. The couple had spent the remainder of their day giving comfort where they could within Imladris; but that had left no time for the golden warrior's other half.  
  
No matter how successful the seneschal's errand had been, it was not enough to make up for the damage time apart always did to the couple. The councilor had bravely not complained, but he had taken his partner's absence just as terribly as he always did. Now both were paying for the unaddressed pain and longing.  
  
“I slept beside Lindir for a night,” Erestor finally confessed, anxiety briefly flashing across his otherwise blank expression.  
  
“I know,” Glorfindel replied. There was no judgment in his tone; but when he tried to reach out to his partner, the other pulled back, expression wounded.  
  
“Erestor. You are hurting. Please do not push me away. I am on your side,* _melin chen_ ,” the blond warrior whispered, voice low and soothing.  
  
This sort of response was something that had come up in their relationship time and again; the walls that the councilor put up to protect himself when he feared change or loss. Occasionally, such behavior left Glorfindel rebuffed and frustrated. But Erestor was the love of his life, and the golden warrior was not so easily dissuaded. After defeating Balrogs and defying death itself, there were not that many things that he could not, or would not, face for his beloved.  
  
The blond elf would have said more; but he could see Erestor taking a breath to speak, and opted to brace himself instead. He could nearly envision the hurt taking shape into words. What he had expected had been accusations, hurled like knives. Instead, what he heard was utter misery. It made him wonder what he had missed in his absence.  
  
“What if you had not come back? Why can I not go with you? I do not want to be left behind again! I cannot do this any longer! I will not! Do not ask it of me …” Erestor's voice broke, and brown eyes that were filled with anger and loss focused on the floor instead of Glorfindel.  
  
This trouble between them ran deeper than the fading of Lord Elrond.  
  
“** _Meleth_ ,” Glorfindel tried again. This time he did sit, forcing a place beside Erestor before pulling him close. He felt a shudder in that lean body, but he did not let go. “I will not _leave_ you again. I have sworn it,” he breathed. Sometimes he had to fight his way in to get the other to remember his loyalty and devotion. “ _Meleth_ , you are making war where there is none. I know you do not like it when I leave, I know how hard this has been for you, and I think you brave to face it for the safety of our house.”  
  
The words and touch began to melt the ice around the councilor's heart, slowly easing the fear; and when his expression lost some of its wariness, the blond warrior's heart raced with relief. With his guard down again, Glorfindel knew Erestor would hear his reply out; and that was extremely important considering he did not want him to misinterpret the rest of what he had to say.  
  
“I know that you slept beside Lindir. I know that nothing came of it, and even if it had, I could blame neither of you. You two have been through much, and you both have faced it gallantly. To stand against the darkness together is good, and that is as it should be ...” The seneschal paused to stroke a hand through silky black hair before he continued. “ … And as I should have been the one beside you, I owe a great debt to our minstrel. He watched over two of the greatest treasures in my life while I was away.”  
  
Despite the sounds of protest from the councilor at those words, Erestor was beginning to relax into his partner's embrace. To yield instead of hiding behind his defenses. That was also good, as there had been a great deal of hurt to heal between them before, and that could make things all the more difficult now. Not to mention that this recent incident only served to drive the point home ... Galadriel was right. Glorfindel had to offer out a solid commitment, or the strain would break Erestor's spirit. The councilor needed steady things. Concrete things. He always had. He was a creature of routine and discipline; and the golden warrior needed his lover's stability as much as Erestor needed the seneschal's joy and spontaneity.  
  
Their differences made their relationship harmonious at times, and difficult at others; especially when the Lord of the Golden Flower loved so loyally and honestly that he believed his devotion should have been evident. Erestor's life experiences were based on things that Glorfindel had never had. All a soldier ever received, at best, was a promise. For the councilor, things like rings meant forever, and homes meant dedication.  
  
One of those, Glorfindel had indirectly provided. The other, he had not thought on seriously before Galadriel had mentioned it. Thankfully, there was an obvious way to fix the problem; and a simple decision that should have been made long ago that could be revisited. He was grateful for the Lady of the Wood's reminder, and he would not let another moment slip by him. Not and stand the chance of losing his beloved forever.  
  
“Forgive me; forgive my thoughtlessness,” Glorfindel said, again breaking the hush between them. Erestor could be a very good listener when his stubborn temper was not engaged. “I have ignored your needs, though I did not mean to.” His hands stroked down the councilor's back, feeling rather than hearing the smallest of sounds from the other elf.  
  
Erestor was a quiet lover, but not a silent one. His responses were more subtle. This, though ... This was one such utterance that had taken time for the warrior to come to understand, and one he had forced himself to become more sensitive to.  
  
      When he had first returned from Mandos, Glorfindel had found himself in Rivendell and searching out the last of those loyal to Gil-galad. What he had not expected was for Erestor to be alive. When he had seen him standing at Elrond's left hand, his heart had leaped! How he had wanted to speak to him! But whenever time and quiet had put them close to such an occurrence; the councilor had always fled.  
  
At first the warrior had thought the other furious with him. But then, as days passed, he began to notice how thin and worn his lover was. How he would just as often find an excuse to stand near Glorfindel, as run. And always … always, Erestor made that quiet sound when he was addressed; like his voice had failed him, and his words had become the softest tangle of sighs.  
  
His utterances had left the blond elf baffled. They had been lovers, and one of heart for so long! Even before Glorfindel had fallen, they had been each others' world. The final person to cross the golden elf's mind before he had breathed his last had been Erestor, and he had wanted to return to Arda for him more than anything else! To have his lover treat him in such a way after all he had been through? It had been crushing.  
  
It came to be, though, that his despair proved pointless. Not more than a month after his homecoming, and when he had begun to abandon hope of forgiveness, Glorfindel had found another in his bed in the middle of the night.  
  
It had taken time, but Erestor had finally invited himself back.  
  
That pre-dawn meeting between them had been full of silent passion, and a kind of assurance that the councilor had not been in possession of before. Desperation had created confidence; and for the first time, Glorfindel had become aware of just how broken the other had been by his loss. It wasn't that Erestor hadn't wanted to speak to him. It was that he hadn't been able to until he was certain Glorfindel had not been a dream. Those sounds from before had been a voice lost to pain and fear, and the desire to overcome it. And the golden warrior swore he would never be inattentive to Erestor's heart again. It was a good resolution to make, but of course, it was not the only change in attitude that came to pass.  
  
The two elves had made love in the past, and numerous times before Glorfindel had been lost to battle. It had always been quiet between them, loving, and perhaps somewhat shy on Erestor's part; but never before that first night in Imladris had the other stayed in the warrior's bed until the dawn. Not even when the councilor had given his innocence so many centuries ago.  
  
Now, in Imladris? Erestor never left his partner's side. They shared quarters, and for the councilor to not have Glorfindel beside him in slumber was intolerable to them both. Of course it had taken a hundred years worth of work to move beyond what had come to pass, but that could not be helped. The loss of Gondolin, the loss of … everyone. It had nearly killed Erestor, too, and despite the hope of a new home in the 'dell, it had taken both lovers ages to regain their confidence. (Some interference from Elrond hadn't hurt anything, either.) But time was a thing that moved and changed; and eventually the councilor had filled out to a healthy weight, Glorfindel had begun to sleep soundly through the night once more, and stability helped the love grow surer between the two elves. Even if it had been hard work to recover, it had also been rewarding. They had made a home for themselves in Imladris, and the councilor had grown bolder and more demanding by the day.  
  
      Erestor was leaning into Glorfindel then, warm hands stroking down his chest and breaking his reverie. Again that murmur, fluttering and low, and the warrior knew what it meant. A thousand words could not be spoken as poignantly. They meant Erestor was putting aside fears to make room for the love between them. It meant … Glorfindel should touch him. And the seneschal needed to. He had longed to hold the other again, to be one spirit. The cold nights they had recently spent apart had been too long.  
  
Slowly, the golden warrior pushed the other back, capturing that wary face in his hands. He stared into deep brown, smiling to see the pride, worry, and love that had never died despite how much loss had dictated their relationship. Nothing would stop them or break them. The blond warrior had decided this.  
  
If commitment was required, then he was not afraid of that, either.  
  
The golden elf only let go with one hand, and just long enough to rummage through his robe pocket. From the depths he pulled out a glittering ring. The silvery band was elegantly detailed with scrollwork, and held an oval shaped amethyst gem within its center. It was something that he had come by long ago. It had been a knowing gift from another master. Now, he finally understood why he had been entrusted with it. And just who he had been meant to give it to.  
  
“Mithril, for strength, and amethyst for wisdom,” Glorfindel whispered. “My strength, and your knowledge; they were meant to compliment each other just the same as this band. I want you to be mine, and I yours; until the worlds are no more. Even the Golden Wood supports me taking your hand. That is, if your heart desires it as well? Please pledge your troth to me before all?”  
  
Erestor was staring at the ring in shock. He tried to speak, but no words were forthcoming. Again, that small sound left him. The one that made Glorfindel ache.  
  
“Please?” the golden warrior whispered; afraid now. Had he been wrong? He had been ready to pull away when Erestor's hands closed tightly over his wrist.  
  
With a look of wonder, the councilor placed the ring upon his finger, and then his mouth was on Glorfindel's. It wasn't even a kiss so much as it was one word. 'Yes,' pressed warm and close; the blond elf's lower lip between Erestor's as he tugged them down to blankets beneath them.  
  
~*~  
  
      Glorfindel gasped as his first slow, deep thrust left him buried inside of his lover. Every time they were one it was as if for the first time. There was something so right about the love between them, and perfection in the way they fit together. Erestor was slighter than he, but he had never had to be too careful with him.  
  
Besides, the councilor became incensed when he was too gentle.  
  
Case in point, strong fingers were digging into the muscle at the top of the golden warrior's shoulders; holding him possessively. Erestor's rich brown eyes were nearly black with passion, and the desire between them where their gazes met was breathtaking. Sure and never flinching, he took all his lover had to offer and returned it in spades. Strong muscles rippled around the golden warrior's length, as the tiniest of teasing smirks turned up the corner of that full mouth. Glorfindel normally would have stopped to let them both adjust, but the dark-haired elf was not one to wait patiently through the process.  
  
“Do not wait! I am no virgin!” Erestor demanded.  
  
“I do not want to hurt— ”  
  
“— Glorfindel?” Erestor interrupted. “Please!” The last word was almost a growl, grit out as the slightest of motions on the councilor's part encouraged a grunt of surprise from the elf above him.  
  
“Are you certain?” Glorfindel whispered, feeling Erestor's hand release his shoulders to come up and tangle firmly into his hair. The golden warrior would have checked one last time, but then the councilor impatiently took things upon himself. His strong legs tangled around the warrior's waist; and the seneschal could not help arching into the slide, the tightening of muscle, and the rock of lean hips.  
  
“You!” Glorfindel gasped out, not able to finish his sentence. It was Erestor who hushed him and captured his lips, and then the warrior's body and heart knew how to do the rest. The rhythm between them was caught easily enough, but there was an edge of desperation to it.  
  
Erestor's responses all too quickly became rough and frantic, and when Glorfindel worried the other might be punishing himself; that was when the warrior forced them to a stop again. “Be still, Erestor … do not be so harsh with your heart and body; I will not go, I have not gone. Let me give you what you need,” Glorfindel whispered, golden hair spilling between them as he bowed his head, kissing the side of his partner's neck.  
  
The councilor's back was arching, and he was moaning in frustration while fighting to be allowed to move again; but this time the bigger warrior would not let him. Gentle but sword calloused hands slipped a pillow beneath his lover's hips, and then, only then, did the blond elf begin to thrust once more. He knew it would be slower than Erestor wanted, but he could never take pleasure when he worried that his partner hurt.  
  
With the pillow placed thus, it changed the angle for both of them, giving the blond elf the steady accuracy that was all but demanded by his mate, and himself the ability to slide deeper, something he preferred when given the option.  
  
Resting his forehead against the councilor's, Glorfindel then gave all he had; heart, soul, and body. His thrusts were always steady, and his mouth was busy drawing gasps as he kissed from chest to jaw, re-learning all that Erestor was. Their coupling was perfect, the ring on the dark-haired elf's hand was perfect; and when they came, they came as one, the world fading out to white around them.  
  
And peace, even if temporary, graced their repose.  
  
~*~  
  
      Lindir awoke with a terrible headache.  
  
The minstrel moaned and rolled over in bed. Someone had tucked him in tightly so that he had not fallen out onto the floor in his … state. He blinked in confusion, feeling a mixture of physical ache and nausea.  
  
How much had he had to drink?  
  
A too-bright glint of glass from his side table then attracted his attention. A phial had intentionally been placed there, and it was filled with something the musician was very familiar with; though seldom on his own behalf.  
  
Herbs for a hangover.  
  
Why, oh why, did the damnable birds have to be so loud. He was too apathetic and miserable to do more than lie beneath his blankets, reeking of stale wine and self-loathing. At last, though, he forced himself to reach for the vial and drink its contents. It tasted just as horrible as it smelled, and the few moments after downing it were spent trying to keep it that way.  
  
After that, the minstrel's motivation was gone and he curled back into the blankets feeling more alone than he ever had before. Even one night beside Erestor had reminded him of what he could never have; and of all the things that would never be. He curled his knees up to his chest with a groan, arms wrapped around his stomach. Perhaps it was just the wine souring, but the ache in his heart had actually become physical.  
  
Imladris was waking around him, but the minstrel had no desire to move. Everything felt broken; and so he stayed in that position until he lost track of how long he had been that way.  
  
Eventually, mercifully, he fell back into an uneasy sleep.  
  
He was not needed anyway.  
  
~*~  
  
      The day did not dawn easily for the Lord of Imladris, either.  
  
The first thing to cross Elrond's mind was that Lindir had not woken him; and judging by the light in his rooms, the morning had grown late. The second concept of note was that such a thing was very unusual. The third and much stranger event was fully realized moments later.  
  
Sitting up with a grunt of surprise, the peredhel found Thranduil, King of the Greenwood draped gracefully around him.  
  
For the longest time the master-healer sat there blinking, dark hair askew. They had … He looked down. No robes. They certainly had. A jumble of thoughts came and went, but more than anything else; Elrond felt … guilt.  
  
His bedmate was still sleeping, brow furrowed and oblivious. Apparently, even Thranduil's dreams were serious.  
  
The peredhel was stunned. He still wore his wedding ring. _He wore his ring_ , and … where were his children? Where was Lindir? Horrified with himself, he tried to rise without waking Thranduil, but that proved to be impossible. He had just made to the edge of the bed when long limbs wrapped around him and pulled him back in.  
  
“Where are you going?” the king grumbled sleepily. His voice was softer and sweeter when he was barely awake, and the peredhel froze.  
  
“I must attend ...”  
  
“Your precious Imladris will survive a day more without you. Come back to bed,” the blond elf hummed, blue eyes promising a few things that Elrond was no longer sure he was ready for. The day before was a blur.  
  
“I must ...” Elrond tried again, trying to stand. Once more he was pulled back, and then closer to the taller elf's side.  
  
“Rest. Let things sort themselves out on their own.”  
  
Elrond had wanted to fight it, he really had; but being awake for these few minutes had reminded him why he had given up previously. The weight of death was still heavy upon him, and when he laid his head to Thranduil's broad chest, when the starkness of the world around him was once again too much; he gave in, falling back into the silence. And there he dreamed.  
  
~*~  
  
      The peredhel was alone, walking beneath a starry sky deep within the Misty Mountains. For once the night there was brutally clear, and the snow had passed on for a rare few hours. Such an event left the mountain air even colder, if that was possible, and Elrond wondering why he was there.  
  
Finally, and with a note of personal horror, the healer realized he was at the entrance to the Redhorn Pass. The pass in which _she_ had been captured. He had dreamed of this place before. His first memories of it pre-dated her death; and it seemed little had changed. There was nothing there to indicate an ambush or struggle, and the drifts around him were undisturbed. It was as if the crime had been erased, or had never come to pass.  
  
Just like Celebrían's life. Like her husband and family.  
  
The mountains were still and empty, waiting as they always were for their kings to return. Elrond paused, and could make himself go no further. This was as close to her as he would ever be again, at least for a very long time.  
  
He tilted his head back to look up at the stars above him once more, and to the dome of the world in which they hung. Such was his namesake, after all.  
  
He missed Elros. The other half of his physical being. The part of his soul that had died a mortal death. Unwittingly, a tear ran down the side of his face, freezing long before it hit the ground. It glittered like a comet until it impacted the snow in front of the peredhel, leaving a minute crater.  
  
It was then that the dream shifted, and helplessly, Elrond moved with it.  
  
That tear became a drop of blood, and the snow beneath his boots became a churn of mud and crimson. The smell of black magic filled the air around him, along with the stench of sulfur and a wave of pure forge-heat that beat along his skin. He tried to look up, but he was on his knees, head heavy. A pair of over-warm arms were locked around his waist, and a quavering voice was speaking to him. 'Breathe … breathe … it is over now. It is over ...' Elrond had been retching violently, and the taste of vomit was still on the back of his tongue. Gone. All gone. Glorfindel … Gil-galad …  
  
A much more youthful Erestor was holding his hair back, stroking a trembling hand against his master's clammy skin as a trickle of blood ran from Elrond's brow; and then the memory of war swiftly gave way to the healer's earliest remembrances.  
  
… Once more the ground was red, and the peredhel was sliding through space, through time itself until he was younger, and much smaller.  
  
Tense fingers were pulling his head back by dint of his unkempt hair, and the bite of steel nipped at his throat. It was a sharp contrast to the burning around him. Elros was sobbing for their parents, and everything was ablaze. Crimson hair spilled down across the tops of small hands, and a deep and sweet voice was begging for the life of a child too innocent to know what death was.  
  
Debts were paid in crimson, again and again … that had never changed.  
  
“Elrond,” a stern voice said, drawing the healer back from the fray.  
  
The fire was gone, but crimson was not, and again the peredhel was standing within the pass; a second tear slipping down his cheek. This time it did not freeze because warm breath was brushing against the side of his face. Why did he still see red?  
  
“Elrond, always dreaming. You never were as practical as your brother, but maybe that is a good thing.” The words tickled the edge of the half-elf's pointed ear, and that voice ... it was so familiar to him. The same strong arms from his memory were now wrapped around him from behind, instead of holding him hostage; and fiery hair was tangling with his in the winter wind.  
  
“ _Maedhros?_ ” the healer whispered. Had he really forgotten his foster fathers? Their voices, their songs … the stories they each carried within their hearts, bodies … and scars.  
  
A lone hand stroked a strand of unruly hair back from Elrond's eyes, turning and tilting his head up to meet curious blue-green. “I am here. I have never gone far. How could I when ...”  
  
_When Maglor was still alive._ Elrond finished the sentence in his head.  
  
Of course.  
  
“Tell me, then,” Elrond said, daring to fully turn, to reach up and touch that elegant face. “For the first time, I do not want to make my own choice. It is not mine to make, and yet it must be so. Tell me what I should do?”  
  
The peredhel found himself longing to be comforted by the very elf who had destroyed all he loved (and spent the rest of his life atoning for it). The bossy, demanding, and opinionated other half of Maglor had been swift to discipline, and slow to love, the elflings he had acquired. But once Maedhros had finally accepted his young charges, the depth of how much the warrior had cared … had been awe inspiring, if not confusing. More than once Elrond had asked for advice and been rebuffed, but it did not stop him from trying again now.  
  
“I cannot tell you what to do, Elrond. Believe me, I am the last being to ask such advice of, you know that,” Maedhros stated.  
  
The healer watched his adopted father's face with desperation, fearing to look away. Knowing the moment that he did, he would be alone again. That this was only a dream. “Do you regret it?” Elrond asked, believing he was only addressing his troubled psyche.  
  
“Every moment,” was the reply.  
  
It. What was it? The Kinslayings? The Oath? The Silmarils? Maedhros throwing his life away and leaving a confused Elrond and Elros, and a broken Maglor? Neither of them could be certain what had been meant, but the answer was enough in its absolute nature.  
  
“Why are you here?” the healer finally asked.  
  
“Because you dreamed me, and because your heart cried out to mine. I think that at last … we truly understand one another. I cannot tell you how much I wish it were not so.” A strong hand clasped Elrond's shoulder. “You are a fine elf. A fine lord. You will still learn and grow, and some day you will come to know that you cannot break if you have not already. You are made of the stars themselves, blessed by the hands of those that love you. You bring healing to hearts and bodies, and you know it is not yet time for you to rest. But if I must go through the pain of repeating myself … I will remind you that I cannot tell you what to do. But given a choice, I would not repeat my mistake. That is my _advice_.”  
  
“Do not go!” Elrond whispered suddenly, feeling himself on the edge of waking. He did not yet know of which mistake the other elf spoke, and had no desire to return until he was certain.  
  
“I have never left, but my time is done. Your time is now … do you want to see what is to come?”  
  
“No,” Elrond breathed, shaking his head. He did not. What he truly wanted was one more moment … one more second with someone. With anyone. With Maedhros.  
  
He was falling again, then, falling up; and Maedhros, the pass, and the mountains themselves disappeared in a shatter of golden light.  
  
“ _Wake up_.”  
  
~*~  
  
      Thranduil studied that sleeping face. Elrond was dreaming, tears streaming down his cheeks as his hands clasped tightly at the black velvet cloak he cradled to his chest.  
  
“Wake up,” the Sinda called again, this time stroking the side of the peredhel's face and pushing tangled black hair aside.  
  
There was still no response, not immediately, and so the king recognized this sleep for what it was. The healer was seeing. This sort of traveling happened often to those with the gift of foresight. Most often when they slept, though sometimes also during the day. He had seen it occur in many places before, once even in the middle of a battlefield. Said elf that incident had befallen had been none other than the Lord of Imladris; so Thranduil was not that surprised now.  
  
The elf-king's hands stroked that pale brow, trying to ease, to comfort. After all, he had not forgotten his promise.  
  
It had been Elrond who had pulled him back from the marshes, who had saved him from the same fate as his father's. It had been Elrond who had made certain all the elves of Greenwood were cared for while Thranduil was floundering in his grief. An entire people would have crumbled had a certain standard-bearer not stood up, taking charge of the injured and the frightened. And the king had not forgotten the peredhel's aid. There was no way he could, as his pride was very strong.  
  
Though that did not meant that the nights had not been long, and that the fear had not been great. That neither himself nor Elrond had bowed beneath the weight of heartbreak, and the pure overwhelming terror of new leadership.  
  
The evening that they had first been together, the first night that they had rested close to one another within the command tent, twined and seeking comfort; Thranduil had sworn to Elrond that should the other ever truly need him, he would come. He had not made him pledge any oath in return, but he had known that by nature alone the peredhel would silently uphold the same agreement. The peoples of the Greenwood had been through much, and Thranduil would never freely offer out their aid again; not as he once might have before he had come to see the horrors of war firsthand, and to know what true loss was.  
  
But he was not against offering himself, as any king might.  
  
And here he was.  
  
“I have kept my promise, Elrond Half-elven. I have kept my promise, and so you must live. Because if I fail … it will be unforgivable.” Blue eyes were serious, focused intensely on that face before them.  
  
“ _Wake up!_ ” Thranduil said again.  
  
~*~  
  
      Elrond gasped awake, sitting up suddenly. Lean arms went around him then, supporting him as he trembled. Those arms were not Maedhros' nor Maglor's, nor were they Elros' or Celebrían's.  
  
“Thranduil?” Elrond whispered.  
  
“You are not alone,” the blond elf murmured. His touch was surprisingly gentle and understanding as he held the healer to his shoulder.  
  
Elrond took a shuddering breath, breathing in the scent of the forest that always surrounded the other. He was awake again, and he could not forget. Those he loved were gone forever … His hands curled around the cloak he still clutched, and he tried to slow his breathing to comfort the pain. He would not weep. He could _not_ weep.  
  
“There is time. Take your time,” Thranduil murmured. Knowing that his touch would be grounding, the Sinda then began to stroke long fingers idly over Elrond's back and shoulders.  
  
There was quiet for a few long minutes, until the peredhel finally shook himself free of the last vestiges of his dreams. “What do I do? Where do I begin?” the healer asked brokenly, shattering the silence of the room.  
  
“Get dressed,” Thranduil replied. The answer was that simple, thankfully.  
  
“But I ...” Elrond whispered.  
  
“Of course, your attendant is not here. But I am sure you can manage on your own?”  
  
Elrond shook his head, and that was when Thranduil smirked. Ah. So that was it. Of course. There was a certain sort of fondness that might have been to blame for the peredhel's helplessness.  
  
~*~  
  
      It took some effort, but soon enough Elrond was dressed neatly in a set of dark blue robes, and his hair had been brushed and braided. He smelled of fresh herb water and the oils that Thranduil had graced the hollow of his throat and wrists with. Of course, the Sinda had managed to make himself look just as tidy. His own aesthetic could not bear looking dowdy when he was a distinguished guest of Imladris.  
  
“There, that is much better. Shall we take breakfast in the gardens?” the elf-king asked. “I do so desire to see what your land offers in manner of blooming things, especially since the days grow cold. I may not have this opportunity again anytime soon.”  
  
Elrond gave the other a fragile smile, and then slowly nodded. He was not hungry yet, but his guest surely had to be.  
  
      The healer had no more than opened the door to his rooms, when Arwen appeared.  
  
He did not know if she had been waiting, or if she had timing as deadly as her mother's had been, but there she was. She looked startled, and she was frozen where she stood; glancing back and forth between her father and Thranduil.  
  
Finally recovering from her surprise, she bowed to their guest; her expression growing unreadable if not cold.  
  
Thranduil gave her the slightest of nods in reply, understanding all too well how she must be feeling. His own son had taken the loss of his mother very similarly. He then nudged Elrond forward just slightly, forcing the peredhel take a step towards his daughter. “I believe I can find my own way, but I shall wait for you by the kitchens. We are late in rising, so I will request a meal for us,” the Sinda said.  
  
Elrond was a father, and one who needed to spend time with his children. No doubt they were worried.  
  
The healer had barely given him a nod of thanks before Arwen had launched herself into his arms, distracting him. Thranduil chuckled at that, then chose to give the broken family the privacy they deserved. And turning on his heel, he headed off into the labyrinth of halls and open, arched bridges. He had learned his way around quickly enough.  
  
~*~  
  
      Elladan studied Elrond's expression, his gray eyes somewhere between relieved and sullen. Word traveled quickly in Imladris. His shoulders were tense, and Arwen had already fled the room in tears.  
  
The twin was trying to decide, without his brother present, how he should handle what he was seeing. He was old enough to understand that his own needs were separate from those of his sire's. That he did not have to like what was happening, but it was not, in fact, his place to dictate. But he was fiercely loyal to his mother, and Elrond … fraternizing with a Silvan elf was a very delicate matter. He was also equal parts relieved that someone had gotten through to his father at last, and frustrated that his own efforts had meant so little. In the end, that left him very confused as to how he should take all that had come to pass.  
  
Elrohir, the ever more emotional of the twins, had gone to comfort Lindir; claiming his anger too be too great to face their sire with grace and dignity.  
  
“You are still leaving us, then?” Elladan asked, something in his tone fragile.  
  
“I do not yet know,” Elrond admitted. “If I do, not forever, certainly, but I would be leaving you as Master of Imladris in my absence, should I so decide.”  
  
Elladan made a noise low in his throat at that, shaking his head. The very motion was a refusal and denial in one.  
  
“You cannot go. Please, _Adar_ , do not …”  
  
“Elladan. It would only be for a short while,” Elrond tried again. “You will have Erestor and Glorfindel to give you guidance, and your brother and sister at your side ...”  
  
“A short while? A short while to an elf is not the same as that of man! Do not think I do not know what you mean to do!” Elladan gasped out. He was never one to raise his voice, but Elrond's word choice echoed his mother's all too easily, and his sire had barely been back with them a day. Of course the eldest twin was terrified of what his father might do.  
  
“Elladan,” Elrond began, but he knew he had already lost his son to his fears. He tried to reach out, to rest a hand on that tense shoulder, but his eldest shrugged it off fiercely, standing and drawing himself to his full height.  
  
“Oh, go on then. Leave us. You have not been with us in months. I do not know what I expected, but I suppose I had hoped for better than this!” And with that, Elladan was gone. Hair unbound, tunic untidy. He seemed to have had as difficult of a time as his father, and Elrond's heart ached for that.  
  
For a few long moments the peredhel stood in the middle of his chambers, trying to fully grasp all that had changed, and all that had come to pass in his slumber. When he could not, he made his way toward the kitchens and his guest, who must have been waiting for some time now. It was literally all he could do.  
  
He had known that nothing was going to be easy, but he had not realized just how hard it might be. Not when it was his own house that suffered.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~*~  
> *I love you  
> **Beloved/Lover  
> ~*~
> 
> A/N: Wow, sorry this is so lengthy and it took so long. History! You cannot escape it when writing elves. Don't worry, you will be getting a lot more backstory from Thranduil and Elrond as well, but I had to start somewhere :3 Also. Maedhros. Squee. ((so debating bringing him back, you have no idea))
> 
> I would also like to add that I'm really not into criticism. Some things mentioned here are head-canon and not perfectly true to Tolkien. I'm writing this story for my own entertainment. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't, well, no one is making you read it and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Beta Credit: All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
> Zeta Reader: All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond begins to fade to his grief. Who will heal the healer? A story of things lost, and found.

 

 **Chapter Seven:**  
  
      Someone had been rapping at the door to his chambers for a goodly amount of time, but Lindir had not been able to make himself answer them. He felt slightly better for the draught he had taken, but not well enough to move. He had never felt this empty before, and was caught between pain and a slow-burning jealous anger. It wasn't like him. _This_ wasn't like him, and he groaned in self-loathing.  
  
This was miserable, and so was he.  
  
Of course, his distress wasn't all due to his hangover, and he knew that. He just wasn't ready to acknowledge the reason he had been drinking in the first place. With a sigh of indignation, he pulled the blankets closer around himself and then buried his head deeper beneath the pillows, hoping whoever was making such a racket would eventually go away. He had only wanted one night and one day in which he did not have to pretend to be fine for the good of all Imladris. He could remember little of yesterday, so that might have actually gone as planned; but someone was still insisting at his door, so he doubted the latter was an option.  
  
The forlorn minstrel had just rolled over and away from the din when the door to his chamber swung open. He froze, hearing the sound of elven footsteps, light and near-silent as they approached the bed. Then there was weight on the mattress beside him, and the blankets were slowly pulled down from his face and shoulders. Warm and careful hands touched his forehead and jaw, searching for sign of injury or fever. They were so like Elrond's that the breath caught in Lindir's throat and he struggled tear swollen eyes open. Could it be?  
  
Gray eyes met his, while dark hair as sleep tangled as his own tumbled unbound over a broad shoulder; Elrohir was glorious in the late morning light, and the musician's heart gave a leap just before it was crushed by disappointment. The son was so like the father.  
  
“Look at you,” the young lord murmured. “You look worse than me the first time I stole a bottle of Adar's best. Do you remember that?” he asked companionably, reaching down to help the minstrel sit up whether he wanted to or not. “A cool bath will help, and it looks like you found the potion Glorfindel left for you.”  
  
Lindir groaned in disapproval. Being forced upright made the world real, and it felt like the top of his skull would slide off. The sun was too bright, and everything hurt in so many ways. It was as if he was trying to breathe broken glass and swallow nails at the same time, and he wanted to plead with Elrohir to stop. That he wasn't well … and that he couldn't bear to see another dawn when he felt this empty.  
  
And when he turned, then, to try to talk some sense into the younger elf … that was when he saw that cheer had faded to tears, and he knew that the other had come to him because he was hurting as well. To Lindir's knowledge, it was the first time either of the brothers had reached out since their mother's death. He was both surprised and humbled by the thought, and again a pang of grief lanced through his chest.  
  
It took some time to sink in; but after a fashion the minstrel realized that he and Elrohir both wore the same expression. Exhaustion. Emptiness. Fear. Change had come and turned everything they knew and loved upside down.  
  
“I am sorry,” Elrohir said, voice abruptly subdued and breaking with emotion. He looked down to the bed. “I am being selfish,” he admitted. “I could not bear to see … him ... with Adar. I needed someone to talk to, and I came for self-serving reasons. I should not have interrupted your grief ...”  
  
Lindir shook his head when he realized that not only was his secret out; but that he was about to do something incredibly stupid. Elrohir … was so much like Elrond. The young lord was warm, reachable, safe, and … oh, but the minstrel longed for that touch again. He knew that Elrohir was _not_ his sire. He knew it, and he knew in the end it would be a disservice that he did them both; but he could not help himself. The fact that he had cared for Elrohir since he was born did not even cross his mind. There was only an aching need to belong, for something stable to cling to within centuries of loss. I  
  
And that shared desire drove not only the singer, but the son of Elrond as well.  
  
Elrohir knew what was happening between them, too. Lindir could see it dawning on him; and when the young master finally looked up, understanding was written all over his face. There was a long silence betwixt them. One in which they both considered each other shyly, and the minstrel finally reached out, wiping away the young sire's tears with the sleeve of his robe.  
  
Elrohir did not pull away. Instead he leaned into the contact, his hand coming up to cup Lindir's closer and turn his palm against his lips. Neither of them knew what to do with the weight of mourning between them, but eventually the singer took both the younger elf's hands and clasped them reassuringly. Then the musician's thumbs began to stroke there unbidden; brushing against palms that were calloused from handling a sword, and fingertips that had toughened from holding a suture needle. They were so like Elrond's that the pain rose anew, and the smallest of breathy sounds escaped the minstrel. This was a hurt that could not be bandaged, and a war that could not be fought with sword and shield. Both elves were still at a loss for what to do, and the tension continued to grow.  
  
      In the end, Lindir could not be certain who had made the first move; but suddenly he found his lips on Elrohir's. Not a second later the younger elf-lord was returning the gesture, and his uncertain hands left Lindir's to fist tightly into the singer's hair. The tug made the musician take in a sharp breath before he hesitantly tried to mimic the motions, his touch lighter where it tucked a strand of mahogany back behind an ear. There was a kind of desperate belonging in the space between them; and so the minstrel accepted his awkward treatment without struggle.  
  
The kiss eventually became deeper and more ardent, and Lindir groaned in frustration when Elrohir moved over him. They both were fooling themselves, but he wasn't sure he had the heart to ask his young master to stop. Not when he needed this just as much … and when Elrohir pressed him back to the bed, he let him.  
  
The singer finally understood that he would not be able to give himself to his lord. Never. He also knew he might not get this chance again. That was, the opportunity to lie with someone who, while using him equally, would at least value what he had to give. Few were kinder of heart than the sons of Elrond, and that … that would not be so bad. Furthermore, the minstrel's innocence could be comfort to one equally unversed in love-making. If that was what one called something like this. (Lindir couldn't have known. He had never even asked, as his life had always centered around his duties.)  
  
Elrohir's kisses moved distractedly down the side of his attendant's neck. The motion was not so much rough as it was unpracticed, and when trembling hands slid beneath the minstrel's sleep robes; Lindir let them. “Elrohir,” he whispered softly. “I would give you anything, but you know I am not what you need. Would you not rather offer of yourself to the one you love?” The musician shuddered in pleasure as the cloth slipped further from his shoulders, baring his smooth chest.  
  
Elrohir was sobbing, and dully, the musician realized that he was too.  
  
“Elrohir, my young master, _*mellonen_. I would do anything if it would make your heart lighter. I would give anything to be truly wanted. You know this …" The young peredhel's kisses against his collarbone had turned into exhausted nuzzles, and his warm tears fell against the minstrel's pale skin. They were both wanting, aching, and tangled together, and that … that was when Elrohir finally stopped, slumping away to the bed beside Lindir. “I know,” the musician promised softly, rolling onto his side to slip his arms around Elrohir and tuck him under his chin. “I know it hurts,” he breathed, pulling his blankets up around the other.  
  
“Lin ... dir ...”  
  
“I was touching you because I wanted you to be your father. I am the one in the wrong,” the minstrel murmured. “Please do not blame yourself.” He was blushing scarlet with shame.  
  
Elrohir laughed sadly then, but not unkindly. “I was hoping you would. Because I needed you to. It ...”  
  
“ ... All is forgiven. Calm yourself. And if you need me still? I would rather give myself to you, than to never know desire. You would be kind … ”  
  
Elrohir sighed at that, cutting Lindir off by holding him more tightly. “I am so sorry, Lindir. I know you love him. I do not know what I was thinking … I do not know what is happening to me, or Imladris, or Adar ...”  
  
The musician shook his head. “I have decided that none of that matters. Not today. Lay beside me, just like this, and I shall tell you a story. We shall pass the day thus. And perhaps, later, things will not seem as bleak.”  
  
Elrohir nodded at that, and Lindir hated himself all the more as he rubbed the younger elf's shoulders; knowing that desire would quickly give way to sleep. It had been a beautiful half-lie, and if nothing else … he had been wanted.  
  
~*~  
  
      “Do not pick at your food. It is unseemly for an elf-lord,” Thranduil said empirically, setting his fork down beside his plate.  
  
“I have not seen my minstrel since yesterday morning, and that concerns me,” Elrond shot back darkly, vengefully stabbing a strawberry from his salad, but not taking a bite of it. Not yet.  
  
“For an elf gifted with the second sight, you are incredibly blind. Or perhaps you do not want to see it?” the elven king said drolly.  
  
“Thranduil, you are possibly the most frustrating of beings I have ever had the privilege of – ”  
  
“ – He is in love with you. Naturally he is crushed. He has been by your side faithfully all this time.”  
  
Elrond went paler than he already had been, and he slowly pushed his plate away as if he might be sick; gray eyes wide in surprise. Of course. But of course … He put his head in his hands, then, cupping his face. A lone eyebrow arched high was the only thing visible above his fingers. “I … I have nothing to offer him,” the peredhel finally said, exhausted by the day already.  
  
“Not now, perhaps. You have even less to offer yourself. But that will change with time,” Thranduil murmured. “Do not be so quick to surrender. Much has come to pass.”  
  
Of course the Woodland King meant the anger and upset of Elrond's children, the longing of his minstrel, the ache of a kingdom broken and left asunder, and a house in disarray.  
  
“Where do I begin?” The peredhel asked out from beneath his hands, not sure that he could bear the trip they had planned to the gardens. Not when he was still shaky and half-numbed by grief. He kept asking the same question, he knew; but it was the only one he could.  
  
“When one has lost everything, when nothing is left. When every dream is shattered … they begin by being. The answer is 'you'. You are the new beginning's dawn. You must eat, you must bathe and sleep, and you must get back up when you fall. Think on nothing more than that at first. Moment by moment, day by day, the pain will lessen. You will feel again, you will laugh again, and soon … purpose will find you and your strength will return. That is the way of it. There is no such thing as an end, especially for our people.”  
  
Long fingers brushed gracefully across the back of Elrond's hands, slowly moving them away from troubled gray eyes. “You are still yourself. You have only forgotten for a time and there is no shame in that.”  
  
The peredhel hesitantly looked up into cold blue, and there he saw something he had nearly forgotten. The bite of steel, the thundering clash of war, and the remembrance of times long ago that had been better. But they had been better, and they could be again. Slowly, the half-elf stood from the table and brushed out his robes. He had just been about to turn to the other and ask if he still wanted to visit the gardens ... when he found that the strawberry that had been forgotten on his fork was suddenly hovering centimeters from his lips; dangling from Thranduil's fingertips. He glanced to the elf-king, confused. “Are you feeding me?” Elrond didn't know if he was flattered, or insulted; and the berry was beginning to color those pale fingertips.  
  
“Eat, before it stains your robes,” the Silvan king stated, as if this was the best reason to do so.  
  
And perhaps, for Thranduil, it was.  
  
~*~  
  
      Elrond could still taste the strawberry on his tongue as they wound through the flora. There was a sort of reassurance in Thranduil's presence that the healer had not anticipated. The other elf was tall, solid, and stately; and while at times his bearing harshly reminded Elrond of his own human blood, it was predictable. And the peredhel took comfort in that as he talked of the gardens' origins.  
  
When they reached the back quarter of the plot, _her_ garden, his steps grew slower. He held out a hand without thinking, his fingertips trailing across a pink winter rose as he drifted to a halt. He remembered well her days tending to the flowers, and his children playing here enthusiastically. He had healed many a scraped knee and elbow, and plucked out his fair share of thorns because of the plants of this terrace. Elves were hardy, but not impossible to hurt, and sharp thorns did the job unpleasantly well despite the beauty of the blooms.  
  
He found himself brushing his fingertip over one such thorn, not able to help ruminating on the irony. The blooms … the place had become overgrown. Even his master gardeners seemed loathe to come here. Some memories were so beautiful in their simplicity that they were painful.  
  
He gradually became aware that Thranduil was watching him, expression neutral but wary. Of course he was on guard. Elrond hadn't realized until he felt the Sinda's gaze that he had stopped talking and walking. The healer didn't know why he had chosen this garden to tour first. Perhaps it was because he felt closer to her here. Perhaps it was because he wanted to share the good with someone who had given him light in times of trouble; and to have them appreciate the small and perfectly … imperfect things. Perhaps he wanted to face the pain and fight it. He didn't know for sure.  
  
As he had been ruminating, the half-elf had been mindlessly pressing against the thorn; but with the last though his hand had twitched and the spine pierced his fingertip. Elrond gasped, and pulling his hand back he immediately felt dim-witted. He did not know what he had been expecting would happen. Such was the natural outcome of doing something unwise. Of pushing the limits of sensation. Of not minding that a rose had thorns. His shoulders slumped, then, and he stared down at the blood beading at the pad of his index finger.  
  
He had expected the elf beside him to scold him, or even to be warned against destructive thoughts or behavior. He would have deserve such things. Instead, Thranduil's arm wrapped around him from the side, and that bleeding finger was drawn up and against the warm wetness of a cat-quick tongue.  
  
Elrond froze, not sure he understood the gesture, not at first. That tongue, slick along his finger, and those lips that were both so soft, and so alluring ... he felt them, oh how he felt it. He _felt_ the sting of saliva on the cut and the shudder up and down his spine. He was stunned by the response his body had to such a simple motion. Thranduil's words from the day before were not far from his thoughts, hovering around both of them in the silence. She had freed him, had she not? Because she had not been able to keep her promise. She had not been able to, and neither had Elrond. The circumstances had been beyond their control, and things had changed. That was the way of life, even if elves took change worse than any other beings in Middle Earth.  
  
The healer's knees felt strangely weak from the continued attention of that clever mouth, and he eventually staggered into Thranduil. His body was still weary and sluggish from his convalescence, and the Sinda steadied him understandingly, stepping in front of him to support him with chest and shoulder. There was a mischievous sparkle in those brilliant blue eyes as they met Elrond's gray; and that tongue was still teasing over the wound.  
  
When the bleeding finally stopped, and the Woodland King disappointedly released the healer's hand, it left the two standing very near each other. They were so close they could have kissed, alone in the shrine of Elrond's memories; and there was a heat building between them that the peredhel was hesitant to acknowledge. The dark-haired elf was looking down again, past and through the moment and to every memory that haunted his steps.  
  
“You felt it, did you not?” Thranduil asked, quietly interrupting.  
  
Elrond had indeed.  
  
When he finally glanced up to Thranduil again, the peredhel's breathing was coming too quickly and his gray eyes were showing a hint of green, as they were wont to when he experienced passion.  
  
“I will tell you that you can feel more than that, so much more. It is not gone, and there are better things than pain,” the pale elf whispered, lips so close to the healer's that they were brushing minutely against his with every word. And then Elrond was lost to the promise of pleasure, of distraction between them; and he could not turn back. The hurt became a bittersweet thing with Thranduil's arms around him, guiding him surely.  
  
      He did not know how they found themselves in a secluded glade within the gardens, the roses tall around them as they curled into a thicket of sweetgrass. He did not know how Thranduil's mouth could be so perfect against his own, or how he could let go and let the other touch him as he did. Robes were quickly pushed aside, a glass vial located from a pocket, and leggings and small clothes lost altogether in a flurry of gestures that made both elves gasp for air.  
  
The peredhel lay back against the soft grass as Thranduil's kisses trailed lower and lower. Those clever lips and tongue were tasting and teasing him before taking him in; and he knew the sounds he had to have been making were ungraceful. But he could not care, nor could he stop. He was fisting his hands into that thick, golden spill whenever the wind moved it within his reach; guiding his lover as much as he was holding on to what sanity he had left.  
  
And when the first finger slipped inside of his body, slick with oil, he moaned out in both relief and discomfort. It had been so very long. He also knew that in the end, the worst it would do was ache. It would be a pleasant pain, though, and he would no longer feel half as empty for it.  
  
A second finger followed the first, and by the third, Elrond was doing his best not to plead too loudly. He did not mind the smug smirk on Thranduil's face, and he loved the way the other moved up over him, rocking them together into the palm of his hand to ease the temporary loss of mouth and digits.  
  
The sweetgrass beneath them was warm, and it took their combined weight pleasantly when the king settled between Elrond's legs. Their mouths met again; and then, finally, Thranduil was plunging inside; careful hands guiding their joining. The taller elf swallowed his partner's gasps as he buried without mercy, but when he could go no deeper, the Sinda became still. They both did when the healer's back arched in surprise.  
  
“Do not pull away,” Thranduil corrected before he leaned his weight into the peredhel. Using the strength of his body to straighten the curve of Elrond's spine and tease against flagging hardness, he moved minutely, wondering at the feeling of the other beneath him once more. It had been so long since last they were one. The elf-king might have debated that thought longer, but he ended up pausing again for the tension he felt. Elrond had gone as still beneath him as a doe before the hunter. The Sinda wanted to weep in frustration, but he found himself patiently waiting out the freeze. Something this beautiful was not had in haste.  
  
It took a few more caresses, and one long, slow kiss; but the other eventually relaxed against him. This, and a silent nod from Elrond, were Thranduil's permissions. And when the blond elf was finally certain, he shifted them both into a more accommodating position; his soft lips finding their way to the side of his lover's neck. There he nipped against a racing pulse, sighing in relief.  
  
It _had_ been far too long.  
  
      Elrond couldn't remember how he had gotten into the position he was in. He scarcely remembered how to respond as a lover, or even to move. Truthfully he could recall very little, and that … that was what he required. His arms came up around Thranduil's shoulders, and after a few slower, deeper kisses, the taller elf began to move. The very first thrust refreshed the peredhel's memory; reminding him that the other knew his body just as well, if not better than he did (and that one should not arch their back if they desired to be stroked in just such a way from the inside). He needed this, and he could not help wrapping his legs tightly around that lean waist as a particularly accurate thrust showed him just how much.  
  
“Never forget,” Thranduil whispered, voice deeper than normal with the effort of their positioning. “Never forget who you are, nor the good things in your life. Guilt does not bring back the dead, but joy does preserve their memories forever in your heart.”  
  
Those words … Elrond really heard them, and for the first time he thought he understood them. Desperation and grief had mixed into a sort of dull comprehension, and his heart surrendered. Finally he gave in to his body, and Thranduil's expert touch. It felt as if time slowed between them, and the healer fully relaxed into the grass, hands loosening at his partner’s shoulders; trusting the earth to support him, for the trees to hear his voice, and the flowers to remember what once was. He felt the pulse of the earth and the heartbeat of the forest in each slow and satisfying thrust, feeling as he had when he was young. And when he dared to open his eyes once more, there was undisguised affection on Thranduil's face, mixing with the wildness of passion. There was life in this thing between them.  
  
There was nothing else, then, and they took and gave freely; Elrond's voice rising softly on the wind to twine with the king’s. They were one, and there was the vaguest stirrings of … hope, as they pleased one another until they were both trembling.  
  
It was Elrond who spilled first; but there was a flash of heat inside of him not long after, and Thranduil's final few thrusts became slicker and rougher. At last … at long last the healer was free. If only for an instant, he was lost in pleasure and the safe arms of one strong enough to hold him. Someone worthy enough to yield to.  
  
As his senses finally returned, the peredhel became aware that he had been crying out. He could feel the tension in his throat as though he had been shouting above the din of combat. Perhaps this had been a war; a fight against fate, grief, and the loneliness between two hearts. He had no idea how loud they had been, but either way he supposed it was nothing to be embarrassed about.  
  
He was distracted from his thoughts when the smallest of kisses rained down upon his upturned face; and when his vision cleared he found Thranduil's expression to be sweet and longing, though the display of vulnerability did not last long. The taller elf eventually hid away in the peredhel's hair, holding himself up on trembling elbows. And once again the half-elf was reminded that Thranduil, son of Oropher, had a good heart even though he often hid it.  
  
The sweetgrass beneath them had been crushed by their coupling, and the scent was familiar and soothing. For the longest time, neither moved. They just lay there, naked and shaking beneath the pale blue sky, both feeling as if they had won a battle they had not even known they were fighting.  
  
~*~  
  
      Elladan's expression could have melted steel, and Erestor was not backing down, either. That alarmed Glorfindel more than he wanted to admit.  
  
“This was all your idea!” the peredhel snapped.  
  
Arwen's trembling arms were around her brother's waist, her cheek against the back of his shoulder and her palms flat against his chest as she tried to calm him; but he was hurt and frightened, and this situation was not something that could be studied in a book. Hearts were involved, and Elladan's was broken in ways that few could comprehend. It was natural it would finally come to the surface in this manner. The thinker. The quiet brother. Still waters always ran deep.  
  
“I have been your teacher in many a matter, Elladan, and I shall educate you again if I must. You are old enough that I do not have to tell you that your father's decisions are his own. As are yours and mine. A day ago you would have given your heart from your chest to help him, and now you protest? Let him find healing where he may.”  
  
“Do you know where I found my brother?” Elladan whispered darkly, taking another step closer despite Arwen's protest. He was nearly chest to chest with the slighter elf, though the Councilor was not cowed in the slightest.  
  
“Please, brother, do not do this. None of us are your enemies, even Thranduil. Please see reason?” she whispered into his ear, struggling to pull him back. He did not push her away, but he did not yield, either.  
  
“Where might that have been?” Erestor asked, expression neutral as he took the bait. If they had to have this argument, then they would.  
  
“I found him weeping like a child in Lindir's arms. I found him broken and shaking while our minstrel told him tales from when we were children. My brother. The warrior. The stronger of the two of us. What should I say? What can I do? You have taken that option from us by inviting … _him_ here.”  
  
Erestor sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose against a headache. Glorfindel had not abandoned him, but was listening as any good seneschal should be. There were two sides to every story, and he would hear them both before he mediated. Assuming this didn't dissolve into a brawl, which it still could at any moment. In that case the councilor would have appreciated him standing a bit closer.  
  
“I agree with you. This is not fair. None of this is fair. It has also saved your father's life. I am not asking you to like anything, and I will not ask you, Elladan, to agree with my decision. But it was mine to make, and has been the right one to save my lord. I cannot promise you this is the wisest course, because it is far from it. You are not a child any longer, and I do not have to simplify it for you. I know you hurt. I know you fight me now because your heart is wounded, and that is why you will sit down, calm down, and let me bring you a glass of wine. Glorfindel and I shall listen. We will support you, and in this we will not lie to you. Ever. Nor will we coddle you when you act out. Neither of us have accepted such treatment from your father, rare though such an occurrence has been, and we will not from you either. That is good service, not poor.”  
  
Elladan's teeth were grit, and his right hand was still balled up into a fist; but gradually it loosened. He took two slow breaths, his exhaustion showing keenly in the twitch at the side of his mouth.  
  
He turned to look at his sister from the corner of his eye, and she nodded to him, hands still rubbing lightly over his heart. He sighed, an unwitting echo of Erestor's motions. That was when Glorfindel finally pried Arwen free from her sibling, giving her his arm instead, and guided Elladan to sit at the nearby conference table.  
  
Erestor did not back away until the young lord had sunken to a chair at the table; head buried in his arms, defeated and aching. But the Ñoldo did not gloat. He knew the feeling all too well, and in this bout he wished he had not been the victor. “Love will come for you one day, my young master, and when it does, it will heal all of this. You do not have to feel displaced or jealous. I promise you,” the councilor murmured, perching supportively on the edge of the table with a decanter of wine and a glass in hand.  
  
He did not disturb the other elf where he had collapsed in on himself, and he knew his words now had stung far worse than any others exchanged this day. Instead he waited apologetically, listening to Glorfindel quietly soothe Arwen. Elladan would reach out when he was ready. It was not pride in his silence, but fear.  
  
The mantle of Imladris was not light, and the son inheriting it was still a boy in many ways.  
  
No. Erestor was not happy with Elrond, and the next time he saw him, the councilor would tell him so.  
  
It wasn't just his duty. It had to be done.  
  
~*~  
  
      “You still call for him in your sleep. Every time I moved in the slightest last night, you would whimper his name. Did you know that?” Thranduil asked.  
  
They were clean and dressed again, and Elrond had accepted a small lunch before letting the King of Greenwood lead him deep into the city, closest to the boundary walls of the Trollshaws. Of course, the Lord of Imladris had been stopped at least a dozen times by worried elves of the city. They had been glad to see him well, or at least walking about. And he did look better. There was a blush to his skin again, and a warmth to him that had been absent for some time. He was far from well, and he was still much too thin … but there was life to him again. His grace was returning, and even Thranduil was grateful for that. The peredhel had looked wretched.  
  
“For him?” Elrond asked, feigning ignorance.  
  
“You weep for Elros still, and it would seem that after all these years, you still keep ward over his house.”  
  
Elrond froze at that.  
  
Few knew that he kept the treasures of Númenor closer than he should.  
  
“He is dead to me. I could not save one who did not wish to be helped. He made his choice, and I made mine,” the half-elf sighed, hoping to divert the topic, but Thranduil had tasted first blood, and there was no way to turn aside his curiosity. “What is it to you?” Elrond asked, but not unpleasantly. He was on the defensive, but not angry.  
  
“It is to me, that it may be something you need to speak of. The loss is festering in you still, Elrond. And it will lead to nothing good for you or your kin. Besides, it is few that I give the option of bearing their troubles. You should feel privileged,” the king said haughtily.  
  
Now the Sinda was just fishing for compliments. Elrond narrowed his eyes. “You do have a high opinion of yourself,” he replied.  
  
“I would say that you do, too; or you would not have been calling my name as you did earlier.”  
  
Elrond snorted at that, though he didn't disagree, and pulled away to walk further ahead.  
  
~*~  
  
      The peredhel had been silent, stretched out on his back in the cool grass as he stared up into the sky, watching the clouds. He had tired too quickly, and they had stopped near one of the trails outside of the city to rest. There were a great deal of things to think on. In some ways, Thranduil was correct. The healer had lost much, and always he had kept going to avoid his pain. Today, though, he realized just how very harmful that particular tactic had been. And worse, that it had only hurt those that he loved the most.  
  
Of course, now that it was himself, and not another, who faced terrible grief; he was uncertain of how to advise ... himself. He knew he could always speak with Erestor, and he did need to do that. Especially if it was true that Lindir was grieving his relationship with Thranduil. There were a great number of things to be mended, and amongst the most important were his own children. They were no doubt very frightened. The only problem was that Elrond could not properly help anyone else until _he_ had healed; and he wasn't sure where to start on the matter.  
  
Not for the first time, he was grateful for the Sinda's presence as he tried to sort out his thoughts. And currently the elf-king's long-fingered hands were playing through his hair where it was unbound; attempting to distract, and ground. “Tell me?” the blond elf finally asked into the stillness. “Tell me of him?” The words were surprisingly vulnerable, and Elrond blinked at that as he was pulled from his reverie.  
  
It was hard to believe that one like Thranduil would care, or could care. Regardless, the peredhel knew that the two of them had many things in common.  
  
Thranduil's father, Oropher, had been foolhardy, hot tempered, arrogant, and far from an understanding sire. He had even sent his son away to the court of Thingol as he had reached maturity; not to broaden his horizons, but to keep him from challenging him for the throne. Thranduil would not have, but Oropher had been brash and impulsive and thought those around him only capable of the same. His hubris and Thranduil's stubborn nature had not mixed well.  
  
Thranduil was no fool, though, and he had not wasted time weeping. He had found some comfort in Thingol's later greed and misguidance, using it to rise quickly in favor and rank and put himself in a position to do as he pleased. That had been a terribly unhealthy lesson for the heir of Greenwood to learn, especially as he searched for his own identity in a time of great political intrigue and upheaval.  
  
The young heir had been ruthless as a warrior, and more clever than most. It had been key to him surviving the fall of Doriath, and later the catalyst to him being sent by his father as a sign of good-will to the court of Gil-galad in Lindon.  
  
Elrond didn't have to imagine how it felt to be abandoned by family for the sake of pride, or used as a political pawn; and thinking on it made him wince. But he could not ignore the reality of the parallels of his and Thranduil's youth.  
  
Of course, Lindon had been where Elrond had first met the other. It had been thought that time there with Gil-galad would soften the hard edge the Sinda had developed in Thingol's court. Or at least ... that had been one motive among a number of other political statements; and once again, the choice had not been Thranduil's. No form of politics were pleasant, and the elven sort were no exception.  
  
Elrond sighed. “I've no doubt you remember the outrage over the Kinslayings?” he asked.  
  
Thranduil nodded to him slowly, expression sober if not sorrowful. That was where the real end for the elves had begun; the downward spiral. Each Kinslaying had been an undeniable shot fired in a very long and bitter civil war. One that ended with far more slain than saved. By the time of the third and final slaying, the one that had been responsible for destruction of Elrond's family and kingdom, it had became incontestable as to how far the elves had fallen as a people.  
  
“Elros stood between Maedhros' sword and myself, and he would not let him kill us. Of course, Maglor stepped in, but …” Elrond let out a slow breath through his nose. “Elros was there. He was always there; even on the nights I cried silently, and when I would not speak to our captors. When I would not eat, and I could do no more than walk silently in the wake of the disaster in our lives … he was my bravery. He was my warmth.” Elrond closed his eyes. “He held me when Maedhros took his own life. He held me when I was cold or I could not go on. He held me when I finally came to terms with the destruction of my kingdom and all I held dear …”  
  
Elrond's expression was far away and dreamy, remembering shared cloaks and nights spent learning the stars. His time with his brother had been filled with hope, even if it had been slim. Back then he had believed that he and Elros could change the world. That they could make the future better so that what had happened to them would never come to pass again.  
  
He took a shuddering breath before he continued.  
  
“… and then … then he tired of our people. Our politics. He blamed that more than Maglor or Maedhros when it came to the loss of our kingdom and family. He damned the Silmarils for our suffering, as he should, and eventually he came to hate the blood within his own veins, and mine ... And he left me, and I did not know what to do ... had it not been for Gil-galad ...”  
  
“And your mentor fell, too,” Thranduil said, fingers braiding that dark hair idly.  
  
“I lost Gil-galad, too. Yes. I even thought the Valar had forsaken me until Glorfindel was restored to us. I lost … everything,” he said, voice low with exhaustion, and a sort of wonder. He had known it hurt, but he had not know just how much. Never before had he added up his losses, always preferring to move on and help whom he could.  
  
“You have lost your kingdom, your brother, your birth parents, your adoptive parents, your mentor, your good friends, and your wife. None, really, to age. All to unnecessary treachery and battles over rings and rocks,” Thranduil said with a shrug. “There was no peace in their passing, only their duties falling to you. I can see how you, too, do not want to grieve any more. I do not desire to experience any more losses, myself … and that is why I am here.” His blue eyes were sharp with sorrow.  
  
Elrond had to look away at those words, and his hands tensed in the grass. But the Sinda had anticipated his stress and began to stroke his temples, soothing him until he relaxed again.  
  
The healer shook his head slightly at the other elf's simple analysis of a very complex situation. Elrond well remembered Oropher's foolhardy charge in the last alliance; not waiting for the signal from Gil-galad. He remembered Thranduil staying steady, holding back and waiting. That had been the decision that had saved the Sinda's life. Then … then he recalled the young sire standing in the waters of the mire amidst his broken and disheartened people, weeping. Weeping because he had lost the only chance he had to make his father proud, and to win his approval. Weeping because he realized the extent to which a being could be warped by the darkness of politics; and that he, too had been bent to the point he had nearly forgotten the love of his people and kingdom. The latter of which he had lost nearly all of in a heartbeat.  
  
Thranduil had gained nothing after all his work. In the end he had stood alone, and no one could help him. Nor would they, as they held little love for his father. That had made the heir bitter, and he had turned his back on the alliance and took his people home. He had returned wounded in such a way that there had been no glory, only grief. And he had closed himself off from the world, drawing those he could still love and protect near; while swearing an oath just as bitter as that of Fëanor. Elrond and Celeborn had been the few he had spoken with peacefully in the following years. And who could blame him? The game that he had been playing in life, removed from the consequences of mortality, had left him foolhardy.

But now everything had changed, and understanding had been forced upon the Sinda. The young heir of Greenwood had come to some rapid and heartbreaking conclusion much later in life than most: people died despite the inability to age. One's parents didn't _have_ to love them. Those one thought they could trust could betray them. Politics didn't save lives, smart decisions did, and ... sometimes the needs of the few outweighed the needs of the many.  
  
“I've lost faith,” Elrond whispered, feeling selfish, knowing what he did. Feeling selfish for spending this time in thought, instead of speaking more.  
  
“You shared yourself with me all those years ago ... after my father died. Not, perhaps, as you intended. You were the only one who cared. The one who insisted my people have healers and help. You mended me. You gave me your faith. I have been borrowing it all this time, so of course you find it missing. Perhaps it is time I gave it back?” the stately elf asked, tilting his head to look down to Elrond and his now neatly braided hair.  
  
The peredhel could not respond, he did not know how to. Instead he turned on to his side and rested his heavy head across Thranduil's lean thigh, eyes closing in surrender. He had to believe in something. He had to remember who he was, and he had to win back his own hope to do so.  
  
“Rest. We have time,” Thranduil said, not bothered at all that the other had not responded to him. It was a weary task, facing the darkness in one's own heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~*~  
> *mellonen = My Friend  
> ~*~  
> A/N: 
> 
> One of those times where I don't have all that much to say other than "wow this took a long time and was a lot of effort and love." I will also add that I need to go over this a few more times to be sure it reads well. I'm exhausted so any stupid mistakes are all mine.
> 
> Part of the history in this chapter is canon, the other part isn't but can't be disproved either, since we have no information regarding it <3\. Basically it was my call as to what to do, and this is my call. (Yay! personal universe go! :3) It has been a challenge, but it has also been fun. Once again, I'm not going to ask you to adopt nor even like my ideas, but please respect them. It's fun to do your own thing once in a while, and I hope you can enjoy the chapter whether it jives with your interpretations or not. n.n;
> 
> I would also like to add that I'm really not into criticism. I'm writing this story for my own entertainment. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't, well, no one is making you read it and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Beta Credit: All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
> Zeta Reader: All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond begins to fade to his grief. Who will heal the healer? A story of things lost, and found.

 

 **Chapter Eight:  
**  
  
      “My Lord, I must have a word with you,” Erestor's voice carried clear and sharp in the hall.  
  
Elrond winced. Well, this had been a long time in coming.  
  
“Erestor,” he began, turning to look over his shoulder in the direction of his councilor. He might have said something more, but one look at those angry, dark brown eyes told him that he might want to save the pleasantries.  
  
The peredhel had left Thranduil to his own devices, and the King of Greenwood seemed to be contentedly perusing the library. This had given Elrond time to go seek out his children, and to attend to a few of his more pressing duties.  
  
That was, before duty had cornered him in the hallway.  
  
“My Lord, I will not hear any excuse, you must come with me,” the Ñoldo said, a hand unhappily on his hip.  
  
There was a long pause between them in which the peredhel's expression softened. “There is not a single one that I can think of, so lead the way,” the half-elf replied, falling into step with the councilor. He kept trying to make eye contact but Erestor would have none of that, either.  
  
The healer would have been lying if he said that his heart was not in his throat, and that the uncomfortably silent walk beside his councilor wasn’t unnerving. He kept trying to think of things to say but nothing useful came to mind, and by the time they arrived to one of the remote conference rooms behind the falls of the Bruinen his palms had begun to sweat.  
  
He knew what was about to happen, but there was no recourse for it. The world felt like it was in slow motion as Erestor turned to him and pulled a chair out from the table, indicating he should sit. The councilor remained standing, a number of expressions flitting across his countenance before it settled on one of concern. The anger was not gone, it had merely been swallowed. Elrond was not fooled.  
  
“What you ask of myself and Glorfindel is madness, my Lord.” Erestor began. “Your house is in disarray despite the best of our efforts. Elladan is too frightened to take your place, Elrohir is grieving in ways that I cannot begin to comfort, and your daughter is more distant by the day. Our fair city is in greater danger than I would like to admit, and the darkness presses ever closer. My Lord! _My Lord_ …” the councilor’s voice broke with his last two words, biting his lip, tone practically pleading.  
  
“And what of Lindir?” Elrond interrupted humbly, gray eyes searching the overhanging boughs of the tree that entangled the room; sheltering it from prying eyes. The spray from the water was cold and soothing against the peredhel's brow, and he sighed, resting an elbow on the edge of the table to brace himself.  
  
“ … I have a proposition for you,” Erestor said more quietly, the roar of the falls nearly sweeping away his voice. Those dark eyes took in his master's form, and they were concerned. When the adviser answered a question with a question it was never a good sign.  
  
“ … and that would be?” Elrond breathed. If the councilor had not been reading his lips, the words would have been utterly lost in the tumult of the waterfall.  
  
“I think it is time. Take your leave for a few weeks. It would be good for relations; and I believe that perhaps ...”  
  
“I need to mend myself, so that you might go about repairing my house and city without me worsening things in my throes?” Elrond asked, finding his head in his hands for the second time that day.  
  
“Yes. And I would suggest that you take Lindir with you,” the councilor said, expression softening at his lord's distress. And at Lindir's, though the singer was not present.  
  
Erestor might have been about to say something else, but then Elrond's eyes fixed on his hand; and quick as a striking snake the half-elf caught the Ñoldo's wrist. “I see,” the healer replied, the tiniest of smiles turning up the corner of his mouth as he studied the ring on the councilor's finger, “That congratulations are in order?”  
  
Erestor was very still, hoping that his current words would not be taken as a play for power. They could be, as could his recent 'trothal, even though it was not so. Such news might also be painful for Elrond so close to his loss; and Erestor was ever mindful of that as well. That was why he had not broached the subject sooner. He had also lacked the time to do so, which helped nothing.  
  
“What makes you think I will be letting you keep Glorfindel?” Elrond nudged verbally, a hint of humor in his tone as he tried to lighten the mood.  
  
That made Erestor smile despite the gravity of the situation. “Your mother-in-law,” the councilor replied, making the half-elf's eyebrows furrow in rueful amusement.  
  
At that, Elrond's grip at the the Ñoldo's wrist relaxed. “I recognize this ring. It is a fitting gift, and an even more fitting symbol of ‘trothal.”  
  
“You do?” the councilor asked, body language gentling and his tone becoming less defensive.  
  
“It was a gift from Ecthelion to Glorfindel, long ago. When your Lord of the Golden Flower first set eyes upon you in the libraries of Gondolin; if you recall that moment. Perhaps you do not? But I have heard much about it when your love has had many a cup,” Elrond said with a smirk.  
  
That gave Erestor pause. “I did not know,” he admitted. “Ecthelion knew?!” He looked surprised.  
  
“You did not think he and Glorfindel were exclusive, do you? There was love there, yes, but the Lord of the Fountain had found his true heart … and it was not in the golden flower. He saw well what you two would become, and was glad for you ...” the peredhel stopped speaking then. The expression on Erestor's face was one of honest confusion, and perhaps, regret.  
  
It was not every day that one received blessing from a past lord, and a new. Even if the news of the former was belated. Those words took the councilor's knees out from underneath him, and he finally sat as well. Directly across from Elrond, unknowingly mimicking his posture.  
  
“So I shall make arrangements for my holiday, and you … I believe you have some plans to make in my absence? Gladder ones, at that. A wedding would give our people hope,” the peredhel said patiently.  
  
“And you, my Lord?” Erestor asked, nodding toward the band that Elrond still wore.  
  
“Time,” the healer whispered. “I still need time.”  
  
“Of course. Is hers still upon your desk?” the councilor asked quietly.  
  
Elrond's pained gray eyes met Erestor's brown, and slowly he nodded.  
  
“I will take care of everything. Perhaps, my Lord, you might seek out your children. I will send Glorfindel to inform Lindir of his upcoming travels.”  
  
Elrond nodded again in approval. There was no way he could face Lindir … not yet. Not when he had just begun to understand all that he had put him through.  
  
~*~  
  
      Elladan was staring out over Imladris. He seemed otherwise composed, but his hands clutching tightly to the balcony railing gave him away. Elrond stood behind him, a hand on his shoulder. His son was trembling, and the healer frowned at that. They were his children in every aspect. Especially Elladan. Quiet and introspective Elladan.  
  
“I am not going away forever. I am not leaving you. Do not be afraid,” the peredhel sighed. “I am sorry. I was thoughtless. I never once asked you what you wanted, and in that, I was remiss. You have had no choices in the last few months, and I took your pride from you and ignored your grief. The mistake is mine,” Elrond said gently. “I do not blame you for being angry.”  
  
“Angry? Angry?!” Elladan turned cold, gray eyes to his father. “Angry does not begin to describe ...” he trailed off, and Elrond didn't press him to finish his sentence. The outrage from his family was justified and understandable. He had put them through a nightmare.  
  
The young elf-lord's knuckles were white from grasping the banister, and the healer wisely let go of him. Now was not the time for touch. The fuse was lit.  
  
“Please, let me expl—” Elrond tried to begin.  
  
“—No. You listen!” Elladan overrode his sire, brow furrowed with a type of righteous temper that was normally reserved for the like of orcs.  
  
The peredhel did not argue, falling wisely silent instead. His son needed to be angry first. Listening would come later, as it tended to when the more introspective of the twins was upset.  
  
After a tense pause, Elladan finally let go of the railing, falling back into his rooms where he began to pace. Elrond followed after him a moment later, neutral and steady. For several minutes, the elder twin only trod the marble floors; but when the words finally burst free, they did so in such a rush of pain that they might as well have been blood pouring from a wound. And the peredhel was glad they came forth. An injury bled to free itself of debris and infection.  
  
“We already lost mother, and nothing will bring her back. Not pretty words, nor tales of a land I have never seen—and am not altogether sure I care for the actions of—if it even exists at all! Then, we nearly lost you. And for what? For you to give us hope and tear it away again? Like mother, you were going to abandon us; and you … you fraternize with that … Silvan! A wood elf, and one who has already withdrawn from the rest of us. If you do not give in to fading, then what? You will disappear, never to return, just like Maglor? Father, I cannot trust you will not do that, and while I love this city, it is not _my_ city. It is my _home._ I was never meant to rule Imladris, and I will not and can not. What should I say? What should I do? I know how this story goes, I've heard enough tales of heartbreak to last a thousand lifetimes! What of Lindir! What of us! What of … all of those who love you?!”  
  
Elladan was making restrained but angry gestures with his arms, punctuating the end of each sentence with a grimace and a furious flex of a hand.  
  
      Elrond tried again, approaching cautiously and resting both hands on his son's shoulders. For a moment he thought the other might strike him; but then the fight went out of his son, as he knew it would, and slowly he was able to ease his arms around Elladan.  
  
“Not once did you ask me what I needed. Not once did you care. You did not ask Elrohir or Arwen, either. Nor Lindir, Erestor, or Glorfindel … why? Do you not care for us?” Elladan murmured. “I know that nothing can last forever, but could we not have you for a little while longer?” he was speaking so quietly now that Elrond had to strain to hear him.  
  
The healer sighed. His heart was breaking for his children. “Elladan,” Elrond said, finally able to stroke his son's back. “Your heart runs as wild, deep, and steady as the Anduin. I could not have asked for a better son, or friend. You are a gift. And despite all the toils of Eä, you have never cease to be my pride and my joy. You and your siblings are the greatest blessings ever bestowed upon me, and I would offer you every opportunity. I would give you my all.”  
  
Elladan was quaking against his shoulder, listening now that the anger had been given an outlet. That relieved Elrond more than words could express.  
  
“ … And the irony of that, is that all you have ever wanted is my time,” the peredhel smiled ruefully as he continued. “I cannot give of myself to anyone until I heal my own heart. My own spirit. I know I can, but I need time to be worthy again of all the good things given me. Please … allow me such an opportunity? A few weeks, nothing more. After all, I must return. And as I am sure you know, there is to be a wedding. So, will you please watch over our home while I make my peace? I will return, and I give you my word. I shall not take my own life.”  
  
The eldest twin stayed silent for a very long time, hiding into his father's shoulder. He could not make words, he was too hurt, relieved, and broken all at once; and so he could only nod. Grudgingly. “A few weeks. Any longer than that, and I shall seek you out myself. Be warned.”  
  
That made Elrond chuckle.  
  
“I love you, my son.”  
  
“And … you had best be taking Lindir with you. He will mope about without you here, and I cannot—Elrohir cannot—bear to see him like that without you,” Elladan said roughly. “And certainly, you must find my brother and sister … they very much need to speak with you, too.” He bit his lip, and then shook his head. “Good luck convincing Arwen, though,” he amended with a sigh.  
  
“I make it a habit to never try to persuade an elf-maiden of anything. Especially Arwen. She is her mother's daughter,” Elrond said tiredly, knowing when he was defeated before he had even started.  
  
This drew a small and aching laugh from Elladan. But a laugh all the same.  
  
The peredhel was proud.  
  
His children grew stronger by the day, even if they could not see it themselves.  
  
~*~  
  
      “You do not know what you ask,” Lindir said, brow furrowed and back straight under the insult.  
  
“Our lord has asked that you accompany him to the Greenwood. He would have no other at his side.”  
  
“He seems to have plenty of 'others' at his side,” the musician hissed, and then he froze. He was surprised at the spite that had just passed his lips; and the pure impropriety of the words, given his station.  
  
Glorfindel blinked slowly, his normally joyous smile losing some warmth.  
  
“Lindir, I have never seen you thus; you still have opportunity within your grasp. I promise you all is not hopeless … you have ...”  
  
“What do I have?” Lindir asked, hands becoming angry fists. The warrior could see the desperation building, the repression of every thought and emotion that had ever been entombed in well-bred silence.  
  
“I … pardon?” the golden warrior asked.  
  
“I said ...” Lindir began, his pain and anger making him bold. “ … What. Do. I. Have? Name one thing that has not been taken from me. My position? For a lord who will soon have no use for me? What do I have, Glorfindel, what do I have!” his voice was rising, louder and surprisingly commanding.  
  
A being as passionate as a minstrel coming undone ... was never a pretty sight.  
  
“Lindir, I know you are hurting, but I have never heard you speak of anyone within these walls in such a manner—”  
  
“—I have never cried out. Not once. Always there has been my duty. I am done. Hear me now. I am done!” The thought of the pain of attending the two lovers, deep within the darkness of the Greenwood and far from his familiar halls … it was too much for the steadfast minstrel to endure. Not when he was finally aware of how he felt. He had _some_ pride, and what little he did have was badly wounded by the suggestion of standing by while that arrogant—”  
  
“—you cannot possibly mean that,” Glorfindel murmured, hoping the musician would lower his voice if he spoke more quietly. “I know you are angry. Come, I will …”  
  
“Kill me now, or let me go! My duties to this house are through!” Lindir snapped out, his desperation leaving him chest to chest with Glorfindel and refusing to back down; even though he knew such a thing was suicide if ever the warrior reacted. “I have seen more than I ever wish to see, and I have lost more than I have ever desired to lose, even if it was never meant to be mine. Always there has been my duty, but what of me? Who hears my true voice! What am I? A pretty face, a pleasant song … but never has anyone cared about more than that. Never! He has _never_ cared!”  
  
“Lindir … the children need you. Lord Elrond needs you. Erestor and I are your friends. You cannot do this; I know everything seems dire right now, but troubles will pass, and fate will right itself. And though you may be impulsive in your pain, I do not seek to silence you. Not once have you cried out, it is true; and I do not begrudge you this upset. I hear you. Lindir … my friend. I hear you,” Glorfindel tried to comfort, sweet face filled with genuine worry as he took a step back.  
  
Lindir angrily pulled his signet ring off of his finger; thrusting it out to the warrior, who would not take it from him. This only served to fuel the fire, and a soft cry of outrage built in the minstrel's chest. Glorfindel could not even bear to look at him, and was now staring down at the floor.  
  
The singer knew, then, what he had to do. He would not be allowed to stay, not after this; for his words alone were an act of treason. And it was true that his decision would shame his father and his father’s father, but he could not do what was asked of him. What _Elrond_ asked of him. His heart clenched in his chest in cold fear, and then he lashed out again, not able to help himself.  
  
“ … and you were never my friend,” Lindir whispered fiercely, bypassing the warrior to set his ring down on his desk. “No one has been, unless they needed something from me.” He backed away towards the balcony of his room, feeling trapped and panicked. Old fears long suppressed welled up, and he could not think of Erestor. Nor all of his friends, or the moments he had shared with a family that was now as much his as Elrond's. He couldn't, because something inside of him had broken.  
  
He had to leave. He had to escape before everything he had grown to love fell to ruin. It would be no different than all the other times he had moved on. Nargothrond, Doriath, Gondolin … he had seen them all fall. Not one thing had ever been his, but his own life. And if he wanted to survive he would have to leave everything else behind once more. His harp, his music, anything tangible he had regained. No. He could not abide this order. He could not abide … anything.  
  
“Do you know what this reminds me of?” Glorfindel asked into the intense silence that was building, his expression blank. The seneschal kept his gaze averted while the minstrel made up his mind about what to do; appearing for all intents and purpose to be frozen to the floor. When Lindir didn't respond, he continued.  
  
“Maeglin. I was foolish, and instead of helping him, instead of trying to heal his wounds … I, too, turned my back on him when he needed love the most. And look at what became of him. It did not have to be so; and yet here I stand in the same position, and still I do not know what to do. How do I help you, Lindir? You are about to make a terrible mistake, and I know you can see that.”  
  
The musician finally flinched, making a sound of frustration, the urge to flee rising. He had to leave, he had to leave, now! He was _not_ going to Greenwood ... and he couldn't reach his chamber door. He didn't want to walk past Glorfindel again, who might or might not have been wearing the most abused expression possible. Deep down, the minstrel could not bear the decision he had just come to; whether he acknowledged it or not. “I am not Maeglin, and I do not need your pity,” he spat, brave beyond his measure simply because he was desperate.  
  
Lindir wanted to flee in a way that was a bit more sensible; but cut off from a more normal escape route, he did what he had to do. And that was take four, long strides ... and make an ill-fated leap from his balcony to the steps below. Unsurprisingly, he landed poorly despite the fall being short, and he stumbled, pain lancing up his leg. As the hurt raced through the musician's ankle and shin, pride insisted that he ignore it. He was no warrior and he had grown soft. It wasn't a shock that he had wounded himself.  
  
From above him, he could hear Glorfindel shouting worriedly after him, but he did not heed that, either. There was too much fear and pain in his mind for anything else, and desperately he pushed back the memory of flames, smoke, and death. It was all too much to bear. And even though it hurt, he determined began to limp down the steps and towards the city gates.  
  
And when he reached them, the minstrel turned his back resolutely on Imladris; making his way out into the wilds without so much as a backward glance. A few acquaintances called cheerfully to him on his way, but he did not respond. He was angry. Far too angry. He had been alive for even longer than his lord, and not once had he done anything this foolish. Today … it had been three very foolish things, the jump making a fourth; and he no longer knew what to make of himself. The only thing he knew for certain was that he had just burned his bridges; and despite impulsivity being uncharacteristic to his nature, there was no going back.  
  
~*~  
  
      Fortunately, anger could only carry a being so far. And Lindir had finally collapsed. He had been traveling for a good part of the day, and was deep within the Trollshaws, when he crumpled to the side of the main path. He wasn't outraged anymore, he was frightened. He was unarmed, and he didn't even have his cloak. His leg had begun to swell, and the pain was something he was having increasing difficulty ignoring.  
  
He had no home, no family, and nowhere else to go; and he knew that what he had done had been wrong.  
  
Unfortunately, it had seemed like the only option in the moment. Regret filled the minstrel, and not for the first time he cursed not having any sort of life sooner. He had never had time to act out or rebel, or even experience love; and he was paying the price now, while making himself look all the more foolish.  
  
Yes, foolish. He couldn't forget that. Peering down to the pale white circle where his signet ring, a sign of his service to the house of Elrond, had been ... never had he been filled with greater despair. He did not know what to do, and not for the first time, he had nowhere to go.  
  
Unable to go forward or back, the musician finally gave up. Shivering in pain he curled closer beneath a shrub, trying to be invisible. Just like he had been every day of his life. And with no options left, exhausted, hungry, and thirsty, Lindir finally gave in to sleep. His bravery had abandoned him as surely as the sun sank lower in the sky.  
  
~*~  
  
      “And what do we have here ...” came a deep, sweet voice; and a warm hand brushed the side of Lindir's sleeping face.  
  
The singer struggled his eyes open, breathing ragged and tired. He had no idea what was happening to him, where he had fallen asleep, or why he was being touched.  
  
“A minstrel, far from his lord and looking a great deal worse for the wear. Did you have a fight, my friend?”  
  
When Lindir finally realized who was speaking to him, his red-rimmed eyes went wide; and he tried to scramble to his feet, but his wounded leg would not hold him. Once again his instincts to flee had gotten ahead of common sense. And thus thwarted, he gave up with a sound of frustration. Sinking miserably back down to the dirt, he curled up against the pine he had been sheltering beneath; his wary gaze never leaving that familiar face.  
  
“Do not ... no, no,” Maglor murmured. “Stay. You have injured yourself, and help is already on the way. Stay,” he tried to soothe. The younger minstrel was like a terrified stag, and the last thing he needed him to do was try to flee again on an already injured leg.  
  
“Do you live out here?” Lindir asked, teeth chattering. It was certainly an odd way to answer a question with a question, and the younger musician blinked at himself in shock. Of all the queries queuing up in his mind, _that_ one was the first to leave his lips? Though in retrospect, it wasn’t a bad question. What were the chances that the other would unerringly find himself, and Elrond, in times of need?  
  
… Elrond. Lindir hung his head, shame staining his cheeks.  
  
“I would not exactly say that, but I suspected I should be close today. I do try to look out for … those who will let me. Allow me to see what you have done to your leg? I will not touch it, nor will I hurt you,” Maglor murmured conversationally.  
  
Lindir found the other elf's proximity strangely soothing now that he was over his original fright. “What hurts the worst cannot be seen,” the singer admitted; brow furrowing, but not rejecting the help, either. He was much more scared than he wanted to acknowledge.  
  
That made the wanderer smile.  
  
“Is that not the truth!” Maglor praised, reaching out to tug up Lindir's pant leg. Exposing the top of his ankle and calf. What he saw made him sigh. “Well, I suppose this hurts a good deal, too. You have broken it, and then walked on it.”  
  
“This is my fault. There is no other to blame,” Lindir replied, expression fraught with guilt, and more than a little defensive.  
  
“I have no intent of placing blame, my friend. You are hurt. This wound would have killed you before it could heal, strong though we elves are; and especially out here in the wilds,” Maglor stated.  
  
“How can anyone call me friend?” Lindir whispered. “How can you?”  
  
Maglor blinked at that, and then his cheerfulness disintegrated to quiet introspection.  
  
“Because I have made far worse mistakes than a silly outburst, a panicked leap, and a broken leg,” he replied.  
  
That gave Lindir pause. “How did you find out?” he moaned in embarrassment.  
  
“I am a minstrel, too. I hear about everything, eventually. Some traders were talking about it down to the market. Apparently you made quite an exit.”  
  
Lindir groaned then, in shame and pain. Now he _really_ couldn't go back.  
  
“And there, my fellow musician, is the sound of your rescue,” Maglor said, gently stroking back a few strands of Lindir's hair.  
  
The singer had been about to argue, when he, too, heard the sound of hoofbeats.  
  
As Glorfindel and Asfaloth came into view around the bend in the path, and before Lindir could even think to ask his companion how he had gotten into Imladris to begin with, Maglor was gone. And the golden warrior had spotted his quarry where he was curled up in misery.  
  
Lindir had only seconds to pray that his death would be swift and merciful before the Lord of the Golden Flower was dismounting and running to his side. The minstrel had expected to be shouted at, cursed … arrested, or even killed. What he had not been expecting was an exclamation of “Thank Elbereth!” and a bone-crushing hug.  
  
When the other elf's grasp did not lessen, and despite Lindir's stiffness and uncertainty it continued; the musician finally responded. He had been so afraid and alone … and he had said such horrible things. Apparently the golden warrior had not taken a single one of them to heart; and finally, slowly, the pain and fear melted away in the strong arms of his … friend. Glorfindel was his friend.  
  
He had been wrong. He had been so wrong. “Please do not go,” Lindir whispered. “I was mistaken.”  
  
“I am not leaving you. I will take you home. Your leg … oh you have done this thoroughly,” the seneschal murmured, his hug only lessening as he carefully inspected Lindir's injury. This drew a few strangled sounds of pain despite the minstrel's attempt to retain whatever dignity was allotted him; and made Glorfindel wince. “I cannot mend this. Come, ride with me. I will take you back, and Lord Elrond will see to you. I dare not try my hand at healing this late at night,” the warrior murmured.  
  
Out in the wilds, any distraction could prove deadly, and it was growing dark.  
  
Glorfindel and Asfaloth were the only sparks of light in the Trollshaws besides the sunset, and Lindir admitted it. He wanted to go _home_. He did. And he needed to be with Elrond, no matter the pain or the cost. “I am sorry,” he apologized once more.  
  
“Do not be. I do not hold this against you. Come home,” Glorfindel murmured. “Erestor is waiting for you, and he is worried, too.”  
  
Lindir nodded. “Home,” he whispered, voice wavering.  
  
“Yes, Lindir. Imladris is your home. From now until the sun burns out, or we sail.”  
  
And the warrior meant it.  
  
~*~  
  
      “My Lord, forgive my intrusion yet again,” Erestor said after bowing to both Elrond and Thranduil. The councilor was hovering at the edge of the dining table where the two shared their evening meal, expression intense, if not urgent.  
  
“What has happened?” Elrond asked, gray gaze meeting Erestor's with concern. The peredhel had been awaiting news while trying to look like he wasn't.  
  
“We have found our wayward minstrel,” the councilor said calmly; far more calmly than he felt. “And he is in need of your help.”  
  
Thranduil raised an eyebrow at those much needed words, and then he smiled. “That is good news, indeed,” the elf-king said patiently, making sure that none present forgot that he sat at the table.  
  
And when Erestor looked at the ruler of Greenwood like he might be crazy; the Sinda stood gracefully, bowing just slightly.  
  
“I would protect your people as my own; the Greenwood does not suffer the loss of a single life lightly,” Thranduil said empirically. “Should I not be even more glad for the return of one so close to your lord, even if he is injured? He is home, is he not?”  
  
Erestor made no reply, but he did do a double-take at the statement. It was difficult to remember that sometimes ... Thranduil was not a completely heartless bastard. The councilor only managed a slight bow in the Sinda's direction before his lord was dragging them off.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: In which some wounds begin to heal, and Lindir runs away from home. n.n Maybe if he didn't do stuff like this, I wouldn't have to break his leg. >.> I had something important to say, but I cannot remember it anymore, so regardless I hope you enjoyed. 
> 
> I would also like to add that I'm really not into criticism. Some things mentioned here are head-canon and not perfectly true to Tolkien. I'm writing this story for my own entertainment. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't, well, no one is making you read it and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Beta Credit: All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
> Zeta Reader: All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond begins to fade to his grief. Who will heal the healer? A story of things lost, and found.

 

 **Chapter Nine:**  
  
      Lindir still trembled; and Glorfindel's powerful hands stroked through his hair and ghosted over his shoulders as he tried to comfort him. The musician looked lost where he lay, curled beneath the blankets that the warrior seldom shared with anyone but Erestor. His honey-brown eyes were swollen from his tears, and his breath came in shuddering gasps.  
  
The singer was obviously hurting; but very little seemed to soothe him, and Glorfindel was beginning to feel helpless. His healing skills were not enough for a wound this badly exacerbated ... so he and Lindir both had to wait. Together. And frowning in frustration that he could do nothing, the seneschal decided to try one last thing to ease their distress. Or, at least he hoped it would pass the time until Erestor return with their lord. Song was a large part of an elf's life from birth to death, and a minstrel always enjoyed history and a good ballad ...  
  
Resolutely, the Elda decided upon a tender lay about the wind in the trees and the glory of the stars; and he began to sing. If he could not speak words of acceptance in a way that Lindir could relate to, he would express it in song; and while it was true he was no musician, he had a pleasing enough voice. This had to help. It _had_ to, and each deep and resonate note within Glorfindel's melody schemed to make the musician's tense hands relax where they fisted into the sheets.  
  
It was terrible to see anyone like this, let alone an old friend. The song, though, seemed to be helping more than anything previous. The minstrel's pained eyes were finally closing, and his breathing had begun to slow. Careful. All of Imladris would have to be careful. There was no rushing the healing of broken hearts. And Lindir’s … was so very shattered.  
  
Since his return, the faithful attendant had not let anyone clean him up, nor touch his injured leg; and Glorfindel could feel tangles in that rich, chestnut hair as he continued to stroke his fingers through it. Pain seized the warrior's heart at the mere thought of more loss. Would they trade Lindir in Elrond's stead? The fear was hard to suppress. In fact, it was all he could do stop himself from shaking his head in frustration as he reflected on his return to the city with the injured minstrel.  
  
The ride back to Rivendell had only been punctuated by the musician's weeping, and the broken elf wrapping his arms around Glorfindel like he was clinging to life itself. This only increased the golden warrior’s worry, and despite the safety and smoothness of the remainder of the trip, the other had forcibly hidden his face away into the seneschal’s white cloak. Not even the mention of a beautiful sunset or deer grazing the edge of the forest had gotten him to look up; and after a time the blond elf had stopped trying to make conversation. It hadn't helped.  
  
Worse yet, once they had arrived there had been no other choice than to carry the minstrel; he could bear no weight on his wounded leg. This had reduced Lindir to hiding into Glorfindel's tunic yet again; and cradled in those strong arms the slighter elf had blushed with humiliation. Of course stares from concerned citizens of the city were inevitable as the two passed, but the warrior had ignored them all. One of the house was wounded, in body and spirit, and the loyal Elda found himself instinctively shielding the musician.  
  
Of course, he eventually realized he needn't have thought he did so alone.  
  
Erestor had met them at a trot only moments after the warrior had passed through the doors of the Last Homely House. No doubt the councilor had been watching the road for him, as was still his way when they were apart. There was less joy in their reunion than anticipated, though, as Lindir had begun to shiver violently with distress from the evening's chill, and the pain in his leg.  
  
At first there had been discussion of taking the wounded musician to the healer's ward; but Glorfindel and the assistant herbalists had decided that he should be carried to some place safer, and more familiar. It had proved to be a sound decision; or at least, the golden warrior was glad that they had acted as they had. He and Erestor possessed plenty of space in their quarters, and he had been certain that it would be courting disaster to leave the singer alone in his own rooms. Lindir had to be reminded that he was a part of their lives, and was wanted, included, and trusted.  
  
So Glorfindel sang on.  
  
~*~  
  
      Lindir suffered in places within heart and body that he did not know he owned. His leg had become a dull ache that throbbed in time with his much-too-fast heartbeat, and he could not relax. No more tears would come, but he was still sorry. This was all his fault, and surely his actions could not have helped anything at all. Then again, whether he was rocking the boat or not, he always felt guilty; and he did not know what he could do or say to make this right. He had committed treason. _Treason._ Yet Imladris had still allowed him back, and taken him in; and the very friends he had denounced were sharing their quarters with him!  
  
His ordered mind could not understand how someone could be that forgiving. He was certain that he would not be in their position …  
  
Glorfindel was singing to him, though, voice so deep and comforting that he wanted to believe that he could be allowed to stay despite his misstep. But how could he be? His lord was kind, but surely there was a limit to that graciousness; and despite the reassurance of his friends he could not stop thinking about how poorly his story could end. And would, as soon as his master arrived.  
  
Tension built in him despite the song that tried to soothe it away, and he was caught in an odd state of exhausted fear. This kept up for some time until he had thought himself out, until all he could concentrate on was the sensation of closeness. Glorfindel was a friend who loved him enough to forgive his hasty words; and one who had still come to find him when he was lost. That was the sensation that closed Lindir's eyes. _That_ , and the touch of clever fingers that slowed his racing heart as they carded through his hair.  
  
The minstrel had been on the verge of sleep when a light rap came at the door. Flinching at the muffled sound, he wanted to plead with the golden warrior to never stop singing, to not answer ... but that could not be. Logically, it could not. And dread filled Lindir's heart once more, especially when he realized that he was too weary to lift his head. Glorfindel's song fell silent at the second rap, and with a worried look and a gentle pat to his friend's shoulder, the blond elf called for whoever was knocking to enter.  
  
~*~  
  
      Thranduil had been about to follow Elrond inside, when Erestor had bodily stopped him. For a time the King of Greenwood looked insulted, glaring down at the slighter councilor; but when he finally comprehend why the Ñoldo took such a chance at insult, he began to smile secretively. With the slightest of bows and a look of gracious contrition, the pale elf slowly stepped back and let Elrond go alone.  
  
No. This was not his place, and it would be better if lord and servant could speak privately. Much had come to pass. The elf-king had been about to turn on his heel and go back to spend some quality time in the bathing pools, when Imladris' seneschal joined him in lieu of his previous company.  
  
As the powerfully built warrior had brushed past the leaner elf barring the door, the two had shared a warm and reassuring glance with one another. Ah. So that was the couple to be married. Elrond was speaking to the elf-king, but Thranduil did not hear the words of reassurance to rejoin him later. Instead, he saw the briefest flashes of the future to come.  
  
This made the Sinda's smile broaden further. A marriage was good news for Imladris, as was an impending celebration. Better yet were elves that were happy enough to chatter about upcoming events where Thranduil could hear them. A councilor and a seneschal united … it would cement the city's power. And it would bolster the light within the House of Elrond against the coming darkness.  
  
He might have said something in reply to the peredhel, but then Glorfindel was taking him off on a tour of the armory and stables, giving him a bright smile and a taste of his sunny disposition to further disarm the situation. And the King of Greenwood let him.  
  
~*~  
  
      The door closed behind Elrond with a click of finality, leaving Erestor and Lindir to stare at the peredhel in the silence of the spacious room.  
  
The minstrel seemed caught between personal reticence and duty, his instinct telling him to rise and bow to his lord. He had nearly managed it before Erestor crossed the room to wrangle him back down to the blankets. The responses of both his friends made Elrond frown. Duty without thought for self was dangerous, and worse yet, it was his own fault that Lindir was so wounded in body and soul.  
  
For the longest time the half-elf stood with his back to the door in the dim light, debating the best course of action. But ... he was too practiced of a healer to let his own emotions interfere indefinitely, and eventually he made his way across the room to set his bag down. This allowed him to appear to be doing something necessary, when in all actuality he was trying to observe his patient. His friend ...  
  
The minstrel was frozen in fear and trying to look away, flushed with embarrassment, yet pale from the pain; and while Erestor's arms might have been restraining the singer and keeping him lying down on the bed ... they were also supporting him far too much. Weak. Lindir was weak, and not just from injury. This made Elrond swallow a curse of self-depreciation.  
  
Gray eyes finally coaxed swollen hazel to meet them, and slowly, slightly, the peredhel smiled. He then cautiously crossed the room to sit on the bed beside Erestor, and nearest to where the minstrel sagged. “Lindir, my faithful friend,” he began softly. “I hear you are injured, and have had quite a day. Would you let me help you?”  
  
Those words helped to jar the musician from his trance. “My Lord, it is not necessary, I am quite certain I will —”  
  
“—Not be fine.” Erestor growled, cutting the singer off from further objections. “You will not be a fool, and you will let Lord Elrond tend your wounds.”  
  
“I am afraid that if Glorfindel could not mend your hurts, it is I who can help you best. Unless you would like one of the other master healers to—” The look Erestor gave the peredhel could have melted glass with its intense disapproval. “ … I will see to this,” Elrond wisely amended mid-sentence.  
  
Lindir had gone stone still again, eyes wide, and that was all the healer could stand. Carefully, he reached out to stroke back tangled hair from wary, red-rimmed eyes. He frowned at what he saw as his thumb studied a pale, fear blushed cheekbone.  
  
One could not just approach a wounded patient and immediately begin to handle their injuries. Trust had to be established; and kindness offered to overcome and withstand any pain from tending their hurts. The whimper of fear that followed his gesture only confirmed what he already knew. Lindir's heart was broken as badly as his leg.  
  
The minstrel eventually shied away from Elrond's hand, ashamed and unable to meet his master's gaze. In response, Erestor moved to hold him more tightly, cradling him to his side as the peredhel began to stroke the singer’s shoulder and upper arm. The caress was gentle and sought a response that was more positive, trying to reach past the fear and pain. Still Lindir would not look at him.  
  
And then the healer understood what he had been missing.  
  
Lindir was a listener. Touch wasn't disliked, but hearing had to happen first. The elf-lord had watched the minstrel learn new music time and again; and long before the musician's fingertips had ever brushed a harp, he had first studied the piece by reading the notes and humming them to himself. Elrond had to be the one to interrupt the silence.  
  
“Everything that has happened to you today is my fault,” he began, moving closer until he, too, was a warm pressure against Lindir's side. He could feel how cold the other elf was. That was a very bad sign. “I do not blame you for fighting, for being angry, and I even find your courage to protect yourself and find your own way inspiring,” Elrond admitted. “That you have returned to us of your own will … that is the greatest of reliefs for me.” He sighed then, when confused brown met his. The singer's expression was a mix of horror and denial. The words that he could not say seemed to be stuck on his lips, but it was obvious he disagreed.  
  
“I have broken your heart and asked for far too much. In doing so, without even asking what your own needs were, I have taken advantage of your loyalty and kindness. It was you who stood by my side when no other could bear the sight of me; and you who cared for me regardless of my anger, pain, and grief," the half-elf continued.  
  
To that, some of the disagreement went out of those bloodshot eyes.  
  
“I have come to ask your forgiveness, and to humbly request that you return to my side.” Something in Elrond's chest ached in such a way that it almost felt like … longing, when he looked down to the musician's upturned and gentle face. “Will you let me make it right?” He didn't know what 'it' would entail, and did not understand his promise fully, but he knew deep down that he meant it most sincerely. He did not even know what he needed to do for himself; but if he could make the smallest of requests a reality for his faithful minstrel, he would.  
  
The musician was visibly dumbfounded; and In the silence that followed his words, the peredhel proffered the attendant's signet ring. The one that Glorfindel had retrieved from Lindir's desk and presented to him earlier in the day. It had practically been burning a hole in his pocket. “You are part of my family, and you belong here in Imladris. This is your home, and Erestor and Glorfindel are your friends. You are loved and cherished. And I … we … will make a stronger effort to make sure you understand that. I do beg your forgiveness,” Elrond said, voice unbelievably tender.  
  
And that was when the tears began again for Lindir.  
  
The musician made a quiet sound of surrender, and then allowed his lord to slide the ring back onto his finger. The next gesture was slower to come, but Erestor helped it along by transferring the minstrel into his master's arms; encouraging Lindir to embrace the worried healer.  
  
When he finally did, it was enough to bring a sheen to Elrond's eyes as well.  
  
“I was so frightened. I was wrong to say what I did … please do not send me away. I take it back, I take it back!” Lindir gasped, clinging tightly and voluntarily to someone other than Glorfindel. The singer was cold, shaking, and in pain; but he was too afraid to hold on any less fiercely. “Do not go … I will go with you. I would go anywhere with you, my Lord. I did not see … I could not think …”  
  
Elrond made quiet noises of comfort, stroking that tangled hair back and sighing softly. “Of course you are forgiven, there is nothing to forgive, and I will not send you away. You are my minstrel, my most trusted assistant. You are as much a part of who I am and what makes Imladris as Glorfindel or Erestor. You … to think I had lost you … you have no idea how it grieved me,” the healer admitted.  
  
“My Lord, I will go fetch a bucket of hot water and clean robes, and I will help you once he has been healed. We can clean him up well enough … and it will help ease his hurts,” Erestor said, glad he didn't have to mediate a fight for once, even if this situation was equally intense.  
  
Lindir acted as though he might object, but Erestor silenced him with just a look. In that glance was a reminder for them both to behave while he attended his errands.  
  
“And broth, if you do not mind? Put an order in down to the kitchens,” Elrond commanded while asking.  
  
This made Erestor smile, to see the peredhel acting more like himself again.  
  
“Yes, my Lord,” he said, giving the slightest of bows before letting himself out into the hall.  
  
~*~  
  
      Lindir cried himself out again quickly, weak and in pain. He was now just as afraid to let go of Elrond as he had previously been to touch him. When his grip finally went slack, the healer lowered him carefully back to the blankets.  
  
“There are no consequences and no anger, only understanding. You will not be punished,” Elrond reminded. Lindir had lived and grown in more hostile environments than Imladris. That was something that the healer advised himself to think on when choosing his words. The last thing he needed to do was cause more fear. He then began to slowly rub a hand down the minstrel's side. The muscles there were tense from overuse and, no doubt, the fall that had injured his leg. “The only thing I want is for you to get well, and for a chance to prove to you how needed and cared about you are.”  
  
“How can you not … hate me? I have defied you, I cursed you. I … left. I gave up my position and ...” Lindir objected until he was interrupted.  
  
“ … and nothing. You are stuck with me, I am afraid,” Elrond said with a wink. “Now will you let me help? I would like nothing more than to heal your leg so you might regain your strength.” His hand drifted lower, caressing respectfully at the top of tense thigh muscles, working his way steadily, cautiously, towards the injury in question.  
  
“I do not deserve—”  
  
“—You cannot stand beside nor take care of your lord with that injury, it is not a matter of what you do or do not deserve,” Erestor interrupted, returning with a small tray of food and drink as well as a bucket of hot water.  
  
This made the minstrel jump in surprise, (and Elrond too) though the crafty healer used the distraction to carefully tug up the musician's trouser leg, pushing aside dirt stained robes to examine the injury there. What he saw made him frown, and he knew why Glorfindel had said this was beyond his aid.  
  
Lindir was shivering again, expression exposed and confused, and Erestor sighed before coming to sit beside the minstrel once more, taking his hands into his. The councilor could see the tear marks on Elrond's robes, and knew the two had made up, or at least, their lord had tried to apologize.  
  
“My friend,” Erestor murmured to the once-again tense musician. “Try to relax; this must be tended and then you will feel much better.”  
  
Brown eyes met the councilor's, and this time there was reason in them. “Can this really be helped?” Lindir replied, afraid to discuss the recent betrayal between them. His expression was that of a young elfling debating a dozen possible outcomes, and all of them grim.  
  
“Of course. This can be mended and you will be as good as new. Have faith in me, Master Elf,” Elrond interjected with a chuckle, ignoring that the singer was also indirectly asking about the most recent turn of events.  
  
      As Erestor came to sit beside them, the healer focused away from his own heart, and even Lindir's, to deal with the injury at hand. The singer wasn't fighting or trying to escape, if anything he had given up and resigned himself to whatever came. His stoicism was frustrating to the peredhel. Elrond took a deep breath for longanimity, and a moment to remind himself that despite all his years; Lindir had never been injured like this before. So he would have to be even more patient than usual.  
  
Reaching into the bucket at the side of the bed, the half-elf retrieved one of the cloths from the hot water. He then wrung it out and cautiously began to wipe down the swollen limb in question. It was tumescent above and below the break from the stress of being walked on, and already the injury was coloring.  
  
Lindir had previously been quiet under Erestor's grasp, but the touch of the cloth drew a sound of mixed pain and relief from him. His eyes were frightened and helpless as they met Elrond's again, and his hands pulled away from the councilors to fist into the blankets.  
  
Elrond mused that this was no different than the fawn in the forest, if anything it was so like the situation it was uncanny. Perhaps having some recent practice had been good ...  
  
The musician made another slight sound as the healer’s careful fingertips searched the fracture line to check alignment, and this time Elrond hushed him. When he was done causing him pain, little thought it might have been, he reached up once more to rub lightly at the tense muscles of the singer's thigh. The minstrel was weary and still in shock, so it took some reassurance before he was ready to lay his head down again; tired from the stress and fear of the day.  
  
“Will it hurt?” Lindir finally asked innocently, eyes closed tightly in submission.  
  
That question drew a grudging smile from Erestor.  
  
The minstrel had seen both Glorfindel and Elrond heal at least a thousand times, and still … the question seemed compulsory. Every patient asked it.  
  
Elrond chuckled in response, but it was the councilor who answered dutifully. “Only a little. Mostly, it will be warm and soothing, and you will feel peace,” he responded in the peredhel’s stead; reaching out to stroke that tangled hair again. This drew a slow nod of approval from Lindir.  
  
“I can begin, when you are ready?” Elrond asked the two, raising an eyebrow curiously.  
  
Erestor nodded, and then looked down to Lindir. “Are you prepared?” he asked the minstrel who was hiding into the blankets.  
  
Lindir made a lost sound in response, one that clearly stated that, no, he was not, but he had no choice. And then the singer was still again, or at least, until Elrond laid a warm palm above and below the break. Then he began to try and move away, fearing pain that had not yet come to pass.  
  
While Elrond murmured reassuringly in Sindarin, Erestor leaned forward to wrap his arms around the musician … and restrain him. Resting his forehead to the wounded singer's as he had that night they had shared in Glorfindel's absence; he lay down on his side and curled them chest to chest. Like this he could both reassure Lindir, and hold him close so he could not squirm away.  
  
To his right, the councilor felt the strange warm-cool heat of healing magic begin to trickle over Lindir's skin, the backlash of it teasing over his own as well; and he closed his eyes to it, trying to convince the other not to struggle. Of course, the sensation was all consuming and eventually the minstrel went still with a gasp of relief. Elrond had taken advantage of the distraction, just as the Ñoldo had hoped he would.  
  
~*~  
  
      Lindir had expected that it would hurt, that there would be the setting of bones and agony ... but that was not so. Instead, a comfortable warmth tingled up his leg and he knew without opening his eyes that there was a pale white glow surrounding Elrond's palms. It was warm and safe ... his master's touch was safe. Erestor was close, and was a steady and reassuring physical force; but what the minstrel needed … what his heart and body yearned for was even nearer and yet so unattainable that it made him weep silently. The power of the magic coursing through him threatened to take his breath away, and the healing heat had become an ache, but not a terrible one ... when he felt something different.  
  
Something incorporeal deep inside his chest … leaped, and he could sense more than see two energies twining there, Elrond's meeting whatever drove his own life force. The two powers touched, and the yearning was intense and immediate. Two halves of a whole could feel the shattered edges where they fit together, and he was surprised to hear a sound of shock from his lord.  
  
“I see,” the healer whispered, voice pinched in concentration; and to whom he spoke, Lindir did not know. But then the minstrel was freeing one of his hands from the sheets to rest it to the back of Elrond's.  
  
The councilor moved to try to stop Lindir, but to no avail. The moment master and minstrel touched, it produced some sort of surge between them; and Lindir was unprepared for the influx of magic. He could feel the bones knitting, the tense muscles beginning to relax, and it did hurt. There was an incredible amount of heat beneath his skin, almost enough to burn, and Elrond made a sound of surprise as he tried to hold back his power.  
  
Lindir eventually gasped in pain, more out of surprise than sting; and he felt Erestor attempt to restrain him more tightly. The minstrel knew it hurt because the healing was happening faster than Elrond meant it to. Something had sparked between them … but just before he might have started to struggle and the ache become more than he could bear … it began to fade and the power around him washed away.  
  
The separation was jarring even though Elrond's hands were still resting on his leg. Lindir's breathing was rough and he fought to hold his head up, dazed, shocked, and ... awed.  
  
“What happened?” Erestor asked, baffled as well. He quickly sat up to examine both the minstrel and his lord. The peredhel's brow was dampened with sweat, and his head was bowed. He was staring at his attendant in a way the councilor had never seen before, and wasn't sure he understood. Lindir just looked like he had been struck between the eyes.  
  
“You certainly have a latent ability to heal … ” Elrond gasped ruefully.  
  
That wasn't the entire truth, and everyone present knew it.  
  
“Why?” Lindir whispered shakily. “If that is true, why is it that I have never …”  
  
“Not all healers heal the body,” Elrond murmured, brow furrowed in thought. He was surprised at himself for not noticing before today; and the expression on his face only served to confuse the musician even more.  
  
“What? Please … what happened … it was not supposed to happen like that, was it? Please tell me?” Lindir whispered.  
  
“Do not think on that now, think only of growing stronger,” Elrond whispered, standing very suddenly. “I have mended your injuries, and I … I must go. If only for a time.” Something within the healer's demeanor was far away and worried, and Erestor scrambled to help him up and hold Lindir gently down at the same time.  
  
“My Lord, are you serious?” Erestor asked the fleeing peredhel, even as Lindir gave the councilor a look of sheer abandonment and confusion.  
  
Elrond didn't even reply. He strode from the room, barely remembering to shut the door; and when Lindir's deserted gaze turned to the councilor, Erestor did not know what to say, either.  
  
Something had happened, and even the adviser did not know how to explain it. There was something about Elrond's posture that was familiar, though. Both elves knew it meant something, if only they could place it. “It was nothing you did. Breathe, my friend,” the councilor murmured, sitting down by the minstrel's side again. “Come, let us go to the baths. It should be quiet this time of night,” he tried to reassure. “We will walk slowly.”  
  
~*~  
  
      Elrond was running and he did not know why. He felt like something was overtaking him. The air itself was a weight pressing him down, and his vision was growing dim. He didn't even have time to feel guilty for his graceless exit from Glorfindel and Erestor's chambers, or abandoning a frightened Lindir.  
  
The pounding of his heart pursued him, and he was short of breath by the time he made it to the gardens beneath the falls. And there ... he finally collapsed, vision going dark before draining away to red.  
  
~*~  
  
      “I have been waiting. I could use some help,” came a very familiar voice.  
  
Elrond looked up, sand stuck to the side of his face. It felt as if he had been sprawled onto an ocean shore from a great height; though he did not have the first idea as to why or how such a thing had come to pass. The heavy taste of brine was in the air, pervading his senses; and seagulls cried above the ringing in his ears as he forced himself up onto his knees. Dark and tangled hair obscured his vision until he tugged his fingers through it, and then he moved on to using his sleeve to wipe the sand away from his neck and jaw. When he could see properly again, and the world had stopped weaving, he found himself kneeling on the shores of the Gray Havens.  
  
And standing before him, soaking wet, red hair and white tunic clinging to a lean neck and broad shoulders … was none other than Maedhros.  
  
“If I am to come back to help you … if I must return here … sincerely, Elrond, the least you could do is greet me properly. Lying around on your belly in the sand like a beached fish is about as far from that as possible.”  
  
Elrond stared, unable to believe what he was seeing. Was this a dream? A vision? He couldn't be sure. He wasn't sure if this was past, present, or future for that matter. But coming back … to help him? Surely not.  
  
“The Valar took you in after all? I am relieved. I suppose I know why they sent you back, though. You are rather … outspoken, and I do believe they might be punishing me,” the peredhel said, trying to stand and finding that he could not.  
  
Maedhros frowned at the attempt at humor.  
  
“Persistently ungrateful, Elrond. I expected nothing less.”  
  
The two shared a stubborn glare that quickly mellowed, and the peredhel sighed.  
  
“If this is a dream, would you tell me now, Maedhros? If this is a vision, it is another matter. But should my mind be dredging up the strangest things it can concoct, I think I would like to know. I have a _right_ to know the difference between going mad and you interrupting my evening. Especially if you are interrupting my evening. So tell me plainly.”  
  
This drew a laugh from the red-haired elf, though he sobered quickly, crossing the sands to kneel before Elrond. There he drew him into his arms, rubbing his shoulders lightly with … _both hands._ The peredhel's eyes widened, and very suddenly he found himself clinging to the other like a lost child. “Do not leave me like that again, do you understand?” Elrond rasped, tangling his fingers in that silky red, tasting tears amidst the drops of saltwater that fell against his face.  
  
“I am sorry, my friend. I am so sorry to have put you through what I did, you were but a child ... and I had lost my way,” Maedhros murmured.  
  
The world began to blur again, then, and Elrond made a sound of distress, clinging harder.  
  
“This is no dream, and I promise I will find you. I must. Hold on, Lord Elrond of Imladris,” Maedhros said kindly.  
  
~*~  
  
      Strong arms were holding Elrond close, and the peredhel was trembling in confusion, struggling between vision and waking. When he began to calm, he became aware that someone as equally familiar as Maedhros was supporting him. Had it been a dream? Just a strange … misplaced dream? He couldn't say. And then there were flashes ... of Lindir. Lindir's future and his own, and he did not know what to do. It had overcome him in the middle of healing ...  
  
“Hold on. Hold tightly. I have you. Come back, now. You are safe. Come back.”  
  
Elrond found his cheek resting against Thranduil's warm shoulder and silky hair, his fingers digging tightly into the elf-king's robes. He cried silently then, in both fear and relief, and he didn't know if he wanted to go back to where he had been … or to be here, now. Certainly there was hope. But where there was hope ... there was change.  
  
“A vision? What did you see, my friend?” The King of Greenwood asked soothingly, but there was no doubt he was also prying. When the peredhel could not respond and the silence stretched, the Sinda accepted that for a reply. He would have to protect them both until Elrond was ready to talk. With this in mind, he then moved them back into the safety of the overhanging wisteria to create a sense of privacy.  
  
“Would you like me to stay?” Glorfindel's deep voice carried from nearby, making Elrond jump. He had not noticed much of anything in his haze, only that he was not alone. He wasn’t entirely sure, dazed as he was, why anything at all was happening.  
  
“That will not be necessary,” Thranduil replied dismissively.  
  
~*~  
  
      Glorfindel and Erestor had fallen asleep already, but Lindir found himself unable to rest. He had somehow ended up cradled between the other two elves, and wearing one of Erestor's spare sleep robes. While normally he might have enjoyed the comfort of having his friends close; tonight there was an ache in his heart, and more confusion than he had ever felt before.  
  
Giving up on sleep, the minstrel cautiously slipped from bed, managing to not wake either of his companions; and as he had been looking about for his boots so that he might go back to his own rooms, that was when he heard it. A song, shivering on the chill night air, and he froze.  
  
That song. He knew that song!  
  
Without thinking or waiting, or even looking back, Lindir let himself out into the hall. There he only paused long enough to determine wind direction, and where the sound might be coming from before striding off; barefoot and determined with only the ghost of a limp in his step.  
  
He had questions, and he was going to have them answered.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wow, I uh. I've been sick for so long I don't know what way is up. Despite it, I hope you can still enjoy your read.  
> If you're curious about what I'm doing with Maedhros ... the answer is. Whatever I want <3 If you grab this Wiki here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maedhros it tells you there are a bunch of different drafts involving the outcome of Maedhros and Maglor's actions. So ... more or less ... I'm doing whatever I want. Which shouldn't surprise you all that much. Anyway, have another chapter! 
> 
> PS: I'm sorry for cliffie. This was getting entirely too long
> 
> I would also like to add that I'm really not into criticism. Some things mentioned here are head-canon and not perfectly true to Tolkien. I'm writing this story for my own entertainment. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't, well, no one is making you read it and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Beta Credit: All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
> Zeta Reader: All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond begins to fade to his grief. Who will heal the healer? A story of things lost, and found.

 

 **Chapter Ten:**  
  
      The night was still, but not so still that a few elven voices did not join the haunting song drifting on the chill air. The very song that Lindir was chasing. The stars were bright, and it made navigating the halls of Imladris faster. The marble was elegant in the moonlight, as it was well meant to be; and brisk under bare feet. Tonight, though, the musician was not as enamored with the romance of the architecture as he normally would have been. And for a perfectly good reason. Cold, limping, and in borrowed sleep robes … he was letting nothing stop him, not even propriety.  
  
He had to speak with Maglor.  
  
Then again, he wondered if he really needed to hurry. He half expected the other minstrel was waiting for him. The song was no longer shivering and distant, but close, and he suspected it was coming from one of the gardens. The Lady's garden, even. Of course it was one of the most remote and least visited now, so it would be a quiet space to play. It was also a grand place to slip past the guards and rest undisturbed on a quiet afternoon, or in this case, on a crisp fall night. Lindir knew that much. That was why it had been Celebrían's favorite retreat, and later … Elladan and Elrohir's. Many an evening long ago he had retrieved the giggling elflings from beneath the rose bushes for baths and reading lessons. It was odd that he was returning there yet again; and this time, strangely empty of duty.  
  
… it was hard to face Celebrían's death.  
  
He had never spoken about the nightmares he had regarding the incident, or his feelings of guilt. Not to anyone. Not even Erestor. It suddenly occurred to him just how vulnerable he was like this, and without his lord or lady … alone in the halls. Fear clutched at his chest and his pace quickened. He would not be swayed, not even by his own insecurities.  
  
When at last he found himself at the entrance to the gardens, he steeled his nerve. Instinctively he knew that Maglor was there; and at the entryway to the hedge maze, resting in an alcove by a statue of Gil-galad, Lindir found him. The other minstrel was deep in thought, staring straight ahead at the statue as his fingers danced over the strings of his harp. He had ceased to sing, and there was a look of deep contemplation on that face.  
  
“Why are you here?” Lindir asked. No preamble. No introductions.  
  
There was suspicion buried deep in the younger minstrel's chest, and an ache that went beyond what he cared to think about. It was not Maglor he had seen that night so long ago, but Maedhros. It had been the red-haired elf who had borne away two weeping elflings, one of whom had grown to become Lindir’s lord. Still, he could not help his curiosity or mistrust. A son of Fëanor was a son of Fëanor. Briefly, the singer was reminded of Annatar … was he being fooled once more? Would someone capable of such evil as to turn on their own kind be capable of the good he thought of him? Was the great minstrel claiming to do kindness and then deep down planning for darkness?  
  
Those talented hands stopped at the strings. “What you mean is … why did I come back?” Maglor asked in reply. “You should really ask what you mean, attendant of Lord Elrond of Imladris.” The expression on the ancient minstrel's face wasn't unfriendly so much as it was sad. “I understand your fears. I questioned myself, too. I have examined my intentions … my actions, and please allow me to reassure you: while I have done terrible things ... and there was once a great darkness upon my shoulders; it never fell upon my heart. I can be forgiven. I can love. I want to do more than throw my life away for stones and empty promises to a father … to a _sire_ who never once loved me or cared a whit for my honor.”  
  
That made Lindir blink, and even though he was trembling with nerves he moved closer. His rich brown eyes sought the truth from the other minstrel … and found it effortlessly in that knowing gaze. Maglor was not lying. “I see the truth in you, but my question remains. Why return here?” Lindir asked again, undeterred. “And why help me?”  
  
That made Maglor smile and laugh sweetly before patting the bench beside himself. He set down his harp as the younger musician cautiously sat next to him, watching him from the corner of his eye. Lindir was as uncomfortable as a cat on a hot tin roof, and it was extremely difficult to comfort him.  
  
“When I heard of Elrond's distress … I came, thinking to help. He is like a son to me. We had no choice, at first, in each others company; but he and his brother quickly became dear to me,” he admitted. “When Elros died … I mourned. I mourned harder than I did for my own brothers. I did not desire to lose Elrond as well.”  
  
“So you came back for our lord … but what of me. Why help me?” the singer asked.  
  
Maglor's expression sobered then, growing more distant. “Why help you?” he echoed back, stalling for time.  
  
Lindir put up with the behavior because he could see there was indeed a deeper explanation. A difficult one that required the gathering of thoughts. Mostly curious, he waited to hear what Maglor's answer might be.  
  
“Lindir, I know you cannot see it, and Elrond has just glimpsed it himself; but your fate and your master’s are more deeply entwined than you know. As they say … 'like attracts like'.”  
  
This made the brunet minstrel frown. “My Lord Elrond is strong and kind, he is a master tactician, negotiator, and healer. He is wise, and brave, and beneficent … and I am a simple attendant. There is nothing in me that is like my master.”  
  
“You come to me, accusing me of betrayal and expecting deception of me, but it is you who deceive yourself,” Maglor said. There was no judgment in his tone, but no mercy either. “I have heard you sing, and I have felt your power. Why do you think I would leave my … son, so very ill and weak in your care? If there was nothing to you, why would I have trusted you with Elrond? All of him. The strong and the weak?”  
  
This gave Lindir pause, and he made a sound of surprise at the words, each one hitting home like a fist to the gut.  
  
“I do not … I do not know?” Lindir asked.  
  
“Not only do you have the gift of poetry and music … but a gift of healing. There is a song within your soul that no other can hear. It is a song that few can translate, but it is perhaps the most important one ever written.”  
  
“But I am just a simple scholar with a penchant for rhyme, it is hardly a skill that saves lives in battle or ...”  
  
“You have the song of stars in your heart,” Maglor continued. “It is only natural that you would have great skill as a minstrel. Music heals the heart and mind, and for a weary spirit no balm in the world that will do what a song can ...”  
  
Lindir came up short, then. His mouth was slightly open, and his eyes were wide. “That cannot be,” he denied as he recalled Elrond's expression, the way he had pulled back in surprise when they had touched.  
  
“I can see in your eyes that you know the truth. Why are you afraid? Why do you turn from this? You can heal hearts and minds. Even if you could keep but one of our brethren from fading, the ability would not be misplaced. The song of stars is a beautiful gift … why would you hide from it? Do you fear you might have reason to achieve your own dreams? Have you not once thought of yourself before today?”  
  
Lindir couldn't believe he was actually talking to the other minstrel, or that he was trusting him. But gut instinct told him this was the truth. It was right. It made sense. It was … all undeniable right. But where did he start? “Every day, I live my life through someone else. Their happiness, their family's happiness. Organization and attention to detail allowed them to live better lives with less worry. Long has my song lightened their sad hearts, and comforted their hopeless tears. But beneath it all, I have always been afraid that … there would be nothing left of myself when I finish giving all I could. Or worse yet, I would find myself a shell, an elf who was not worth anything at all if not for his position. I fear to find that I was utter nothing from the beginning.”  
  
He blinked, shocked the words had left his mouth; and slowly his hand came up to cover his lips. Why would he be talking to Maglor unless … the question had already been answered. Like called to like. The elder minstrel had indirectly answered his question already.  
  
“You know the song, too … do you not?” Lindir asked resignedly, letting his hand fall away.  
  
“What do you think?” Maglor asked, reaching out to take both of the other musician's hands in his.  
  
The same sensation of power the attendant had felt earlier in the day rose against his skin, but this time … it felt warmer. It felt like … like his own energy. Perhaps pitched differently, the tone unique, but …  
  
He jerked back in surprise, eyebrows raised.  
  
“Do not be afraid. There is no reason to be. I can guide you, if you like. You will very much need to know how to use your skills to your advantage. Soon you go deep into the Greenwood, do you not?”  
  
Lindir blinked. “How do you know?”  
  
“I am a minstrel. I know, the same way that you knew I was here. You must understand how powerful you really are, Lindir, my friend. You do not just sing or heal, you hold the key to fate! Just as you can soothe heart and mind, you can educate. You teach of the pains, and mistakes of the past so that others might understand them and not repeat them. You are just as great as any warrior.” Maglor looked strangely contrite as he spoke. Perhaps the words were bitter to him.  
  
The attendant's gaze went to his own hands as he listened, fingertips only bearing the callouses from strings. “Are you so sure?” he asked.  
  
“My fellow minstrel … you hear the song of the stars themselves and sing it for others so they might understand. There is no greater calling in life. It is you that the darkness should fear the most. Mercifully … evil is ignorant. That gives you an edge against it. Come. I will show you.”  
  
“Show me?”  
  
“I will show you how to heal. The rest you will learn in time,” Maglor said.  
  
There was something in the elder minstrel's gaze that put the younger on edge ... and drew his attention at the same time. Something that Maglor was not telling him. Respect, fear, and curiosity warred. But then Lindir nodded. If this was true … if this was real … then he had a responsibility. It was also a step towards being stronger and more helpful. Or at least, that was what he told himself.  
  
To this day he was still haunted by the fear and betrayal in a young Elrond and Elros' eyes … the look of loss. Of fear. Of death. Things no elfling should face at the age of a thousand, let alone as a child. It was a fell memory he could never be free of, and it drew him back. Back to a time long past.  
  
      As the Havens of Sirion had burned, the scholars had fled. But something, fate, instinct, or fear … had made Lindir run back toward the fighting, terrified but still desiring to help. Then he had been nothing but a simple scholar, not even a minstrel yet; and he had been of no use to anyone despite his bravery.  
  
He would only have died if he had interfered, but part of him wondered ... had he known of his skills, seemingly of small use as they were, could he have prevented some pain? Could he have saved the twin sons of Elwing? Or would there not have been much to rescue them from, after all. Elwing had not been the most loving or dedicated parent, and Eärendil had been noticeably absent. He shook his head. It was impossible to turn back time, and so he would just have to put the pain aside. If Maglor was right, he held the tools to change his future. He did not have to feel helpless any longer ...  
  
And above all else, Lindir hated feeling helpless. Then and now; and to this day, serving and loving a lord who had been too young to remember that they had met once before … he felt like he could never atone. He had chosen to save his own life while watching another hurt. Could he finally heal that wound? Both for himself, and for Elrond?  
  
~*~  
  
      Elrond was staring at the ring on his finger. He was turning it absently, expression far away.  
  
Thranduil sat across from him, ankle resting on knee as he gazed at the peredhel. Celebrían's band sat on the desk beside the woodland king's elbow, and ever so slightly, he nudged it, drawing a glare from the tired healer. The sound it had made as it had slid across the wood had been like a battle-shout in the stillness. “What was it that you saw?” the blond elf asked again, fingers steepling thoughtfully.  
  
Once more, Elrond could not help but find the Sinda … excellent at taking up room. His ego expanded to fill whatever space contained him; or failed to. The half-elf could not miss the intrusion, nor had he missed the chiding, either. The reminder that someday he would have to …  
  
“Two rings, encased in crystal, red eyes in the dark, the faces of long dead loved ones, and a second chance. Maybe two,” he looked up, brow raised. His countenance was a dare to press him for more than that. Of course, Thranduil being himself; did.  
  
“Second chances … oh do tell me of those,” the elf-king said, leaning forward slowly. His tone held an edge of sarcasm, but perhaps there had been a moment of fleeting hope there as well.  
  
Elrond should have pulled away; but that would have been showing weakness and he could ill afford any more of that tonight. Instead, he found his forehead ever so lightly touching Thranduil's, and the Sinda's silky lips brushing his. The healer wanted to say no. He wanted to push the elven king away. But he could not. No, not even sitting amongst the invisible ashes of broken promises, and with her ring skidding noisily across his writing desk.  
  
“We leave at first light. Would you really keep me waiting?” Thranduil purred. “Are not things put in order, or are you unprepared for your journey?”  
  
“Of course I am prepared, Lindir has packed my belongings already.” Elrond stopped himself and stormy, conflicted gray met pale blue.  
  
No, no, Lindir had not.  
  
When the healer's lower lip began to tremble and his breathing grew rough, the pale elf moved quickly. Adjusting his position to accommodate, he pulled the peredhel to his shoulder. There he let him hide away in his robes and tangle work-rough hands into his golden tresses. “I know,” Thranduil whispered sadly, all arrogance aside. “I understand.”  
  
~*~  
  
      “Do you remember how Naneth helped us pack for our first trip to Lothlórien?” Elrohir asked Arwen.  
  
This made her smile. It was the first time her youngest brother had referred to their mother in a long time, and lovingly and nostalgically at that. He seemed heartened by his discussion with their father, and that lifted her spirits as well.  
  
“I do. She always insisted on extra socks, regardless of whatever else needed to go into the rucksack,” she chuckled.  
  
Elrohir smirked. “I also recall her telling me to never wear small clothes that I might be embarrassed to hang off the back of my saddle to dry,” he laughed.  
  
This drew a sweet giggle from Arwen, too. She had also received similar advice.  
  
“Is Lindir going to be all right?” Elrohir asked, suddenly growing more serious. His hands paused at the buckle to the bag he was packing. Lindir's bag, to be precise. They had invaded his quarters in order to prepare him to leave in the morning. The minstrel hadn't left Erestor and Glorfindel's side just yet, and there would not be time at dawn.  
  
“I would certainly hope so,” she said. “Ada … he cared for his wounds …”  
  
Something in those words made the youngest twin blush scarlet, and Arwen blinked. “Elrohir … are you well?” she worried. “Has something happened?”  
  
“No, no no no, nothing like that ...” The youngest twin laughed nervously, already knowing he was a dead elf and that she _would_ find out.  
  
Her eyes narrowed and her gaze intensified. “Elrohir … what did you do?”  
  
Just then, there came a rap at the door and Elladan joined them, a pack over his shoulder and a familiar sword in his hands. His expression had been serious, but when he saw his brother's blush and his sister's ire, he stopped short and laughed. “Oh you know they will end up together somehow. And ask yourselves honestly … would you rather a minstrel for a step-father, or a Silvan king? I can tell you in what direction I cast my vote,” he said, setting the bag down and Hadhafang atop it.  
  
“So you packed Adar's things earlier in the day?” Arwen asked, eyeing Elrond's sword. She couldn't help worrying for her father, traveling in his state.  
  
“Of course, I knew they would leave at dawn tomorrow. I've never seen Glorfindel ride out so fast to find someone; so I think I can guess where his lot lies, too.” The elder twin said, looking conflicted.  
  
“He found Lindir in time, we will see them all off in the morning, and everything will be fine. Is father leaving you with …” Arwen drifted off mid sentence.  
  
“He has, Sister,” Elladan murmured, hiding his ring finger with his free hand.  
  
“I see. So our test begins, as does Adar and Lindir's … speaking of, Elrohir, you did give our minstrel the mildest gelding to ride out, did you not? You know he would rather not meddle with horses if he does not have to,” she said, turning back to the youngest twin.  
  
Elrohir nodded, his blush fading but still not gone.  
  
“Do not worry, Sister, I am certain we have remembered everything. I understand your concern for Adar, but we must put that aside. And … I suppose we owe it to them to see _them_ off, for once.” Elladan said, implying Lindir and their father. And not Thranduil.  
  
Overall, the mood had lifted substantially since the Lord of Imladris had spoken to his children privately. They still weren't happy about the Sinda in their midst, though.  
  
~*~  
  
      “Glorfindel. Wake!”  
  
Erestor shook his very confused mate awake. The blond warrior sat upright with a gasp, reaching for a sword that was not there.  
  
“Glorfindel there is no time for that. You must wake … Lindir is gone!” The councilor said, despair in his tone.  
  
The seneschal was slowly calming, hand over his heart as he caught his breath and cracked his eyes open. Then he startled a second time when the words registered and he began to pat the blanket space between where he and Erestor had been lying. It had gone cold.  
  
“Where? Perhaps he has just gone back to his rooms ...” The golden warrior didn't even get to finished his train of thought before a familiar and haunting song interrupted him; and both he and his mate froze.  
  
“The song from the night Elrond disappeared?” Erestor asked.  
  
“Yes, I recognize it … but is that Lindir playing the harp?” Glorfindel asked. The golden warrior was beginning to look desperately overworked and sleep deprived, and their lord had not even left them in charge of Elladan, family, and all of Imladris yet.  
  
“It is his style of play, is it not?” Erestor asked in reply.  
  
“It is, and I wonder what sort of sorcery is afoot. Lord Elrond had a vision tonight, and King Thranduil and I found him after he ran out. I could say nothing of such a thing in front of Lindir, but I wonder what we are missing … care to find out?” Glorfindel asked, nearly putting his head through the arm hole of his tunic ... twice ... before managing to wriggle into the garment properly.  
  
“You know I love our little adventures,” the councilor said sarcastically, combing down a tuft of his mate's hair with his fingertips. They both looked terrible.  
  
~*~  
  
      Lindir was utterly exhausted. He sat wearily to a nearby bench, sweat soaked, shaking, and alone.  
  
There was no hiding what had happened; and the aura of his power still tangled around his skin, clinging to him like the scent of ozone after a storm. Maglor had fled at the sound of approach, and left Lindir … holding the bag, so to speak.  
  
Glorfindel was standing before the younger minstrel now— hastily dressed, if one could call tunic and leggings dressed— and Erestor was still in his sleep robes, dagger at the ready. The seneschal looked deeply disapproving, the councilor suspicious; and Lindir tried not to melt into a puddle of fear. Taking a deep breath to bolster his courage and thinking fast, he waved shyly to the couple. Erestor's skepticism quickly became a glare as he sheathed his dagger back up his sleeve.  
  
“I'm sorry, I had a nightmare,” Lindir said, tugging his borrowed robes back into position. Sweat dampened the front of them and his breathing was still coming far too quickly.  
  
“A second one? The blankets were cold by the time we woke to find you gone,” the councilor snapped.  
  
“The first happened beside you, I did not want to wake you. I got up, then there was someone playing such a lovely melody that I wandered to the gardens to listen. I fell asleep here on this bench, and here is where you found me after the second ill dream. I am sorry I worried you,” the musician said evasively.  
  
“Are you sure you are all right?” Erestor asked, disbelief in his dark eyes. Moving closer, the councilor wrinkled his nose in thought. “ … and you certainly need another bath.”  
  
“You smell terrible, but we do still love you anyway,” Glorfindel said, not as worried about the untruth so much as Lindir who was chilling in the damp night air and trembling. Effortlessly, the warrior enveloped the stressed minstrel in a powerful hug, trying to warm him. If he had been upset or angry it had instantly been put aside out of concern.  
  
“Come,” Erestor said, trying to banish his annoyance to stroke Lindir's hair. The councilor had always been slightly slower to lock away his disbelief and fear. “We can go to the baths. No one will be awake at this hour, and we will have privacy,” he said, glancing to the sky that had begun to take on a hint of deep blue. It was early in the morning, and … no, it was no matter. Something was going on, and he would get to the bottom of it sooner or later. For now he and Glorfindel would tend to Lindir. Then they would chase down the mysterious song, and the truth about the strange cloak that Elrond had returned with. Erestor had his own suspicions, and was fairly certain he remembered well who that garment had belonged to. The only other issue was … where there was one son of Fëanor, there was usually another nearby. And that should have been impossible.  
  
~*~  
  
      Lindir had fallen asleep in the baths, his heavy head resting on Glorfindel's shoulder. He had eaten an inordinate amount of sweet cakes that the seneschal had liberated from the kitchens for them as a midnight snack; and Erestor had _just_ been speaking to him about the founding history of Beleriand ... when the minstrel had nodded off. Now the councilor was left smirking ruefully.  
  
“What do you think really happened tonight?” Glorfindel asked good-naturedly, keeping his voice down.  
  
“It has to do with Maglor, and you and I both know it … do you suppose Lindir has taken him as a lover? How is he getting into Imladris ...” Erestor murmured.  
  
Glorfindel frowned. “And those, with the exception of the first one not being my business … are very good questions. I believe I should start asking my night sentries what they have been seeing, and if any traveling minstrels, especially ones wearing a black cloak, have gone in or out of the city recently. I asked once before, but perhaps I should ask again. If the Wanderer is here for our lord, he has been active recently and …” the seneschal stopped mid-sentence as Lindir hummed comfortably and curled closer.  
  
“And he was in the Lady's gardens tonight, that is very close. Too close. Perhaps it is best our lord leaves with his … guest. At dawn, and Lindir with him. Until we know it is safe …” Erestor’s finished the sentence for the blond elf, brow furrowed.  
  
“I will keep a closer eye on the children,” Glorfindel agreed, resettling the sleeping minstrel in his arms. “And Lindir, until he leaves us.” The Lord of the Golden Flower’s words were calm, but his blue eyes were worried ... very worried. The city was still extremely fragile, and the whole situation would take careful handling.  
  
He also could not remember Lindir being quite so fond of sweet cakes … but that was a smaller matter.  
  
~*~  
  
      Morning found a groggy Lindir dressed in his finest, his lord settled in his traveling armor, and the party ready to depart. The peredhel's children had said their goodbyes earlier, and that left Glorfindel and Asfaloth to be honor-guard until the walls of the great city gave way to the road into the 'Dell. The singer looked frightened, ill-prepared, and if the seneschal read his expression correctly ... more than a little surly with the presence of King Thranduil. Then again, having the Sinda riding in the position amongst the group that Elrond's attendant would normally have occupied ... wasn't helping anything. Silently, the seneschal prayed the company might at least leave the city without major bloodshed.  
  
The looks the minstrel was throwing at the elf-king were none too friendly, but by the time they had arrived at the main road, Lindir had stopped audibly grinding his teeth. Instead, he appeared to be expending all of his concentration to stay in the saddle and not make a fool of himself in front of his lord. It made Glorfindel feel badly for the exhausted musician, but he had done all he could to smooth the departure. Now he had to believe that fate would take over. It would be as it would be. Though he hoped, for Imladris' sake and the sake of all he loved within her walls, that Elrond would return with only his minstrel. And not a Silvan king.   
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yes, a plot chapter. Things are going to get a lot more interesting from here on out, but there were some things everyone needed to work through first. But that is over with. So ... we are now headed into spider country, hang on to your hats. :3 
> 
> I would also like to add that I'm really not into criticism. Some things mentioned here are head-canon and not perfectly true to Tolkien. I'm writing this story for my own entertainment. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't, well, no one is making you read it and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Beta Credit: All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
> Zeta Reader: All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond begins to fade to his grief. Who will heal the healer? A story of things lost, and found.

 

 **Chapter Eleven:**   
  
       Lindir was exhausted before they had even made the pass, though he would never have spoken of it aloud. Looking up the twisting mountain path made his stomach flutter in fear, and already his leg was aching. The opposite could have been said for Elrond. His lord seemed to have revived in the cool air, and was taking great interest in their surroundings. No doubt part of that was the joy of a two day change in scenery, the other … was caution. They had to be ever alert to a goblin attack, and they would not be stopping anywhere this night.  
  
The party intended to go straight through for three days and then rest on the other side of the mountains. The danger of ambush was greater than that of traveling by starlight. Besides, there was word of a suitable ranger camp on the leeward side, and sleep would be better with the worst of the danger behind them. The minstrel yawned to pop his ears. He was ready to stop, unwisely or not, but he knew he had to stay strong for Imladris' image. Or to be more honest; after a day like this he could care less about what anyone thought of him, or where he was from. The only thing that had truly been motivating him was fear.  
  
He was terrified of goblins and heights, and that meant the ride had already been a special kind of hell on his nerves. He was fixating on his fear of attack rather than how high they were climbing, and the way the earth fell away to his right and left. He needed a distraction, and what better way to ease fear than … bigger fear? He knew enough horrible stories regarding the misery of goblins to fill ten books verbatim. In fact, he had been so focused on that thought that one of the elves of Thranduil's guard was able to ride up on his right without notice.  
  
Lindir winced at what was about to happen, and then he grit his teeth because he was helpless to stop it. A heartbeat later he was given a shove by the other elf; and as he teetered in the saddle clinging fearfully to his gelding's mane, a dire threat about daydreaming and lagging behind drifted back to him in his assailant’s wake. He tried not to cry out; but when he unsquinted his eyes and was given a brief but dizzying view of the valley floor far below … silence was not to be. The unflattering whinny of fear that he made as he scrambled back upright drew him glowers (and an unkind laugh or two) from some of Thranduil's party; and a worried look from Elrond.  
  
“Should _not_ have brought him,” the minstrel's aggressor hissed unhappily where he stood ahead among his companions.  
  
“Good one, though. His face. Did you see his face?” another replied, laughing.  
  
Lindir scowled in their direction, but he did not have to wait all that long for some assistance.  
  
The elf-king was quick to observe the behavior of his escorts; and one very stern word from Thranduil had his men riding in perfect formation again … and primly at that. The Sinda had already warned the party once about keeping quiet, and how sound traveled in the mountains. He did not look pleased with having to repeat himself. Deep down Lindir wondered what that one word had been, as the wind had carried it away. It would have been handy to have it at his command many hours ago.  
  
Thranduil might have intervened, but it had done nothing for the musician's wounded ego. In fact, the intercession had only increased his frustration that he could not defend himself. Thankfully, he was a very well bred minstrel and good at hiding his emotions. He would not … _could not_ let them get the better of him. Not when he represented Imladris. Or at least, that was what he told himself.  
  
And then it worsened yet again.  
  
Lindir very much wanted to die of embarrassment when his master slowed his stallion, leaving Thranduil's side to double back and check on him. The singer hated even more that his hands were shaking when one of Elrond's settled over them; reassuringly clasping his fingers where they clutched his gelding's reins. He hoped his cry had not already attracted goblin attention, and he was ashamed that he was so cowardly that he could not help his response. It was written in worried brown eyes; that, and the stories he could never tell of what had happened throughout the day. Of course he had been lagging behind. Of course he had been too slow. He had wanted to be far away from the others if he could not be directly by his lord's side.  
  
A gentle look from Elrond where he rode beside him expressed that the healer understood all too well his attendant's reasons; still, the scholar's stomach was tense. He did not want to fail his lord.  
  
A few of those in the traveling party had been taking turns ribbing the minstrel throughout the day. Partially it had been playful, but one particular member of King Thranduil's guard, (the one who had nearly unhorsed him) had taken to giving the singer scathing looks and insults. The warrior, one of the Greenwood's captains, had been more than vocal about traveling with a 'wounded' courtier … and a mere scholar at that. The idea still made Lindir snort. _Wounded_ . He had a sore leg, he was not an invalid; and certainly Elrond was not so foolish as to expect any of his people to travel unarmed, whether they were skilled fighters or not.  
  
As proof, the minstrel had been given a decent enough dagger from the armory to carry ... but even _he_ knew that he was more likely to maim himself with it than an opponent. _He_ questioned why he was there, too; and so it was with a dull sort of resignation that he understood some of what was happening to him. He had even accepted the earlier jokes about 'breaking his leg', the mistrust, and the occasional quick shove meant to unsettle him in the saddle. He was not new to mockery and hazing, but it had intensified to a level where he felt like he was being tested as an elf of Imladris; and because of that he was just as glad as he was embarrassed by his master's presence. It kept the poor behavior around him to a minimum. Still, Lindir knew he would bear it, and he would change nothing if he could. He was at his lord's side, for better or worse. Especially when there was the quiet of the mountains around them, and his master's warmth reassuringly close as their two horses fell into step.

He was thankful to his lord for his understanding and his effort to break up the teasing. Then again, as a half-elf, he suspected that Elrond had had his share of similar treatment.  
  
~*~  
  
       There had been several close calls with goblin scouting parties before they arrived at the ranger camp at the base of the mountain pass. Thranduil had also been wise enough to move Lindir and Elrond to the center of the company and closest to himself; thus putting his much better armed courtiers and soldiers to the outside of the formation. It had prevented any further bullying and gotten the party through the night much more quickly; but all were weary once the sun had kissed the horizon, and Lindir was in enough pain that he debated begging his lord's assistance.  
  
By the time they were settled, the horses picketed, and their camp set up around a large bonfire; Lindir had never been so glad to get away from a gathering in his life. A few tents had been erected as it had begun to threaten rain, and the minstrel found himself resting within one of the more spacious shelters with his lord. He knelt on a great wolf pelt. A gift from Elrohir to his father for travel, and it was both soft and warm. It enveloped Lindir's aching leg, and left him leaning in relief against Elrond as he brushed the tangles from that inky hair. The musician had brought them both a hot meal, though the peredhel had scarcely touched his serving and was studying Thranduil through the open tent flap instead.  
  
The minstrel had to admit the other elf-lord was impressive. The King of Greenwood stood nobly outside, ordering his men about and checking and double-checking supplies and the horses themselves. The Sinda was surprisingly good at leading a contingency. Then again, Lindir supposed group size mattered very little before such a level of tyrannical efficiency; and that there might have been something reassuring about it. In this he could not blame his master. He knew, deep down, a musician could never measure the same.  
  
Of course, that didn't mean he had forgiven, or that he did not think of the love in his own heart. But this … even this … To be allowed to soothe and watch over Elrond meant more to him than he could express; and was why he was grateful that the elf-king was not intruding in this quiet moment between them now.  
  
“Lindir?” Elrond asked softly, voice quieter than the whisper of the wind through the nearby pines.  
  
“My Lord?”  
  
“Elrond. Just Elrond. Here and now,” came the hushed reply. “Are you in pain?”  
  
The minstrel stared at his lord in shock, nearly dropping the brush. “I could not ask ...”  
  
“Are you in pain?” Elrond questioned again, this time turning to his attendant, taking one of his hands in his and removing the brush from his grasp.  
  
Lindir looked up into warm gray, and he was glad he was sitting for his knees went weak. Hesitantly, swallowing hard, he nodded.  
  
Tender fingers flexed where they encircled the minstrel's, and again Lindir could feel the shimmer of power against his own. This time, he did not pull away; more boldly meeting the healing rush. He was still shocked at the sensation of pure belonging, comfort, and warmth that could arise between himself and his lord. And while he could not help the sound of innocent surprise that left him, he did manage to relax, letting the healing heat work through him and down into his leg.  
  
When at last the ache in the bone was finally gone, the singer was swaying exhaustedly. And when Elrond took him into his arms and laid them down to the furs, he went without any real objection. The peredhel then pulled a thick, dark cloak up around them both; and Lindir tumbled immediately into twilight, his fear and panic gone. All that remained was his lord, and the safety and belonging he felt in his embrace.  
  
Even when Thranduil entered the tent and laid down on Elrond's other side, a long arm encompassing them both protectively, the musician did not protest. He could not. His heart was beating so closely to his lord's. And he knew it was dangerous to hope, but this stolen moment … it could be enough if it had to be, despite the elf-king so alarmingly close.  
  
“Let your body heal. Rest. We will continue on when all are ready,” Elrond murmured, but Lindir had already sunk into dreams, expression child-like in its complete trust.  
  
~*~  
  
       The wound had not been improperly healed, it had only been sore. Which was a relief to the peredhel. That, and to see a patient able to recover more comfortably. The trip had surely been punishing to Lindir's injuries. Of course, Elrond knew he was deluding himself, and that there was far more to it than that. But he was not ready to think about such things, not yet. So he went still for a good length of time, watching his minstrel's breathing slow in slumber.  
  
“Are you still so blind?” Thranduil whispered drowsily into the healer's ear, nuzzling the nape of his neck.  
  
“Perhaps not,” Elrond replied. And looking down to Lindir in his arms, he could not help a smile. His touch had been enough to wipe the singer's fear away. It was both rewarding, and intimidating, to think he held such influence over another.  
  
~*~  
  
       The party was much heartened with rest and a hot meal. Lindir had been slightly sore yet, though he had not stopped performing his duties as an attendant. But when the company finally departed the camp, he was reluctant to be back in the saddle for more than that reason. He had a bad feeling. One that he could not explain. Perhaps it had been the time spent in his master's embrace, as leaving it had been painful. Perhaps it was because it was his first time away from Imladris in hundreds of years.  
  
Whatever it might have been, though … he was uneasy. And it was catching. His gelding had begun to jitter and stamp grouchily, and the other horses had picked up on the feeling as well. He comprehended that he could not really blame their morale issues on himself; but he did feel partially responsible when the elves around him began to have the same problems that he did.  
  
In retrospect, he should have known what was to come.  
  
The minstrel kept looking back over his shoulder, lagging behind time-and-again. Distance did not ease the feeling he could not explain, and he felt as if he was being watched. In the end a few sharp words from Elrond were more than enough to motivate him forward; though this pushed him into keeping pace with the rear of the party, and in the company of his least favorite elf, which was worse than no motivation at all.  
  
When the entourage had stopped to rest previously, said elf had been introduced as Beriadan. And he was as stubborn as one would expect from a Silvan; just as bad tempered … and the bully who had lead the hazing against Lindir. The minstrel suspected he had been given the duty of looking after a jittery scholar as punishment for his earlier disrespect.  
  
That didn't mean that the singer had to like Thranduil or pretend he was actually being fair. Deep down he suspected the elf-king was just as amused by Beriadan's suffering as he was Lindir's. That, and the obnoxious peacock had intruded on the only private time the minstrel had ever had with his lord. It certainly had not pleased the scholar, and already he was gritting his teeth again, and ...  
  
His unhappiness only tripled when he got his first real look at where they would be making their crossing into Greenwood.  
  
The Anduin was a massive river, seemingly placid on the surface. Deep below was a powerful current, and their ford was, at best, a chest deep arch of rock and sand less than a meter wide. Beneath it, the dark water quickened its flow, and slowed only minutely above. On the downstream side there were ropes: thick, swaying, and dragging the surface of the water where they were suspended between the trees. The lines provided a safety net of sorts, but it was wise to cross on a raft, if one could find one, or a boat.  
  
But the side they were on definitely had no boats.  
  
Normally it was deemed best to lead the horses across, and they could surely make it if all were careful; but today the water was treacherous enough that even the sturdiest and tallest of elf sires would be unwise to try without a bit of weight beneath him.  
  
Beriadan caught Lindir staring in distress and gave him a sharp slap to the knee.  
  
“Do not be so disheartened. Single file we will be fine. We have done this many times!”  
  
It was an attempt, the minstrel would give Beriadan that; but not nearly good enough. When the scholar refused to respond, the Silvan just rolled his eyes and headed down to the crossing; there he examined the water, and spoke with Thranduil, the two conversing animatedly. It seemed to take no time at all for them to arrive at the best plan, and before anyone, (including the horses) could become any more intimidated, the captain sent the first elf and mount out into the crossing.  
  
Lindir waited his turn with a sense of growing dread, though it was not the river that brought it out in him. He knew something fell was coming, and when the first few courtiers and soldiers had strung out across the water, horses nose to tail, a wall of muscle across the Anduin ...  
  
That was when disaster struck.  
  
Elrond was still fording the middle on his stallion; Thranduil just behind him, and keeping a careful watch in either direction, when the minstrel undeniably heard something. It was instinct alone that told Lindir what he saw before he could be fully certain. And in the distance, the sound of battle rang from the direction of the ranger camp they had just departed.  
  
“Goblins!” The musician shouted, voice carrying clear, high, and piercing.  
  
Every head turned first to him … and then the sound of combat in the distance; and as if on cue, dozens of goblins scouts swarmed out of the tree-line and over the terrain, heading toward the party.  
  
At that juncture, only two elves were left on dry ground on the side of the attack, and they were Beriadan and Lindir. Both gave each other a quick glance, and then the minstrel was acting, not thinking. Wheeling his gelding about, he put his back to those vulnerably struggling in the water, and drew his dagger, facing down their assailants.  
  
“Lindir!” he heard his lord shout, but there was no time to argue.  
  
“Go, my Lord!” Lindir shouted in return without turning his head. “I will hold them as I may!”  
  
They were brave words. Stupid words. But Lindir didn't linger on that thought. Beside him, Beriadan's bow began to sing. There was no place for anger, nor insults. It was one lone captain and a minstrel who had never seen combat ... between a goblin pack and their very vulnerable companions.  
  
“They planned this! I should have seen it coming!” Beriadan hissed to Lindir.  
  
The first goblin that made it past the elf-captain’s bow, Lindir's gelding attacked with an outraged fore-hoof strike. The minstrel was nearly unhorsed, but it gave him the opportunity to stab the fell thing in the throat before it could make further attempts to harm anyone. It cost him time, though, and just as the scholar had settled himself back in the saddle again, another creature ran past him into the water. Then came the hum of goblin arrows in the air, and the patter of them striking the dirt just short of the duo. The musician's horse began to weave and bray in response to the increasing onslaught, holding back the smaller monstrosities with vile looks and warning shakes of his heavy head.  
  
With his mount on his side, Lindir took it as a sign to not back down. If nothing else, he, Beriadan, and their horses had worked as a weak but effective wall; driving back the enemy and buying precious time.  
  
Worrying for his lord and companions; the musician risked turning in the saddle to look back over his shoulder. And checking to see how far his friends had progressed … he witnessed the goblin that had dashed past him being swept away by the river. Well, in this instance the water was in their favor. As was time, considering that that the party's forerunners had already made it to the shore on the other side, dripping and outraged. But Lindir did not feel true relief until his lord finally rode up from the murky depths and had turned, shouting for him.

Then, when Lindir did not come as commanded, the peredhel began determinedly rounding up the few archers that had bows heavy enough to reach across the Anduin; ordering them to assist Beriadan and Lindir from distance. And when Elrond called to Lindir a second time, demanding he cross … that was when the singer's gaze fell to Thranduil.  
  
Thranduil's stallion was still in the water, following up after his men, and his sharp blue eyes were not those of an elf giving up on anyone. No. Lindir knew he would help, he believed he would help; and that belief was rewarded when the Sinda drew his sword and turned his steed. After urging the last of his people back up onto the shore, the pale elf began back across fearlessly; undaunted as a frantic Elrond worked on providing cover fire.  
  
When Lindir's eyes locked with Thranduil's, the two had a moment of mutual respect. If nothing else, the elven king might be able to get Beriadan back across before all hope was lost. And Lindir … he would hold the ford, as he had said he would. The minstrel's horse whinnied, and an arrow grazed his shoulder closely enough to rend the fabric of his robes, but the fear had left him. There was something comforting about the Sinda, knowing he would be with his lord. And when Lindir turned back to face the goblins, the singer was certain he was going to die. But if he must, then he would not leave Elrond without a stronger sword than his own at his side ...  
  
“On my mark,” the minstrel said to Beriadan with some level of terrifying calm. “I want you to take to the ford. Better to battle the river than goblins. I will come after you. Your lord will meet you halfway. Guide him back across safely.”  
  
Beriadan did a double-take. “That is suicide. Get across ahead of me. It is my duty to protect you,” the captain said determinedly, still doggedly shooting despite running low on arrows.  
  
“And it is my duty to provide my lord with the strongest soldiers at my disposal to keep him safe. I am not strong enough, but I can buy you time,” the minstrel rebutted as he glowered at a bigger goblin.  
  
That one took a slash at his leg, and instinct put the scholar's dagger up under the creature's ribs. Lindir tried not to experience the yielding of flesh, the harsh stop and grate of steel scraping against bone. It felt like he had all the time in the world, and he would use as much of it as he could without thinking about what he actually had to do. There was no regret. This was war.  
  
He heard Thranduil's voice then, loud and clear, calling to his captain; and the singer gave the other elf a sharp shove in the saddle that halted one of his shots. All the while the minstrel's gaze never left their opponents. “Go. I will come after you if I may.”  
  
The Silvan's eyes narrowed. “You will, and I swear that when we both survive this if you are still standing here, I will swim back across and cane you with my bow,” the captain growled.  
  
“Go!” the musician shouted in reply, tone surprisingly fierce.  
  
When suddenly the captain was gone from his side, Lindir felt a moment of concern. His only company was the whistle and skitter of arrows, and the war shout of the goblins whose number seemed undeterred by the incoming fire. He heard water churning, and when he turned to look back yet again, he saw that Thranduil had a firm grip on Beriadan's horse's bridle.  
  
“There is time. Come to me, damn you!” Beriadan shouted to Lindir.  
  
A second wave of larger and more well armed goblins poured from the edge of the woods, and Lindir realized that he did not have to die. Just standing here had already helped as much as anything, and he could survive; but only if he didn't hesitate any longer. So he didn't. Somehow he wasn’t that surprised at himself that he still wanted to live.  
  
Heeling his gelding for a second time, and tucking his dagger into his belt, he turned his back to the enemy. Praying the Silvan were as good a shot as Imladris' archers, he heeled his horse into a dead run, a war cry on his lips.  
  
At the water's edge, he felt his mount's muscles tense, heard him snort in determination … and then the gelding leaped, and any plan the singer had went out the window. Something had gone terribly awry. There were several heavy impacts beneath him, and then Lindir found himself no longer above the ford, but sinking in deep, inky water beside it. The moment they had hit, his mount's head had snapped back and violently struck him in the nose; then everything had gone fuzzy for the minstrel. Instinct told him to grab on to his horse’s reins as the cold water sucked them both past the narrow ford and over onto the downstream side. Far off, he heard his lord's voice, steady and louder than the roil of water and his horses frantic snorts.  
  
“The _rope_ . Lindir _the rope_ !”  
  
The minstrel's muscles were screaming and his vision was dim, but he saw the safety line and … grasped it as he drifted past.  
  
“You idiot! Hold the rope but let go of the reins!” Beriadan's voice called out not a moment later. “Come to me!” the Silvan shouted once more, desperation in his tone.  
  
Lindir forced himself further above the icy water, and as he took a gasping breath he understood what the other elf was trying to tell him. He was clinging to a dying horse—several heavy arrows protruding from its rib-cage—and the safety rope at the same time. He would be pulled in half in the middle if he did not make a decision; but he did not want to let go, either. With a sick feeling welling in his stomach, the minstrel sadly released his hold of the reins; watching the Anduin swallow his terrified mount, dragging him down and away in his final throes.  
  
“Look at me. Do not look back. Look at me!” Beriadan shouted again. Lindir only then comprehended that the captain was hanging off the edge of his saddle, reaching out to him while Thranduil held both mounts steady. The biggest problem with the already precarious situation was that the goblins had begun to fire rapidly from the water's edge; and the two elves would not leave without him. Lindir could not continue to hesitate, or he would get both Beriadan and Thranduil killed.  
  
With the last of his strength, and despite being cold and hurt, the minstrel managed to take the captain's hand. After that, everything was a blur. Beriadan pulling him through the water, the captain and Thranduil's horses squeezing abreast on the ford to break the current faster ... And when the elf-king finally grasped the half-drowned minstrel and jerked him from the water, tossing him across the front of his saddle, Lindir was barely conscious; his nose dripping blood as he coughed and struggled for air.  
  
The last thing the bedraggled scholar remember was lord's voice, a few harsh whispers of relief, and then the feeling of motion. It did not take long for the sound of combat to grow more distant.  
  
~*~  
  
       When Lindir regained consciousness, it was strangely dark and quiet.  
  
“Halt!” Elrond called out.  
  
That voice. Elrond's voice. The minstrel recognized it easily, even though there was so much blood rushing to his aching head that he could barely think. He was dangling, his cheek pressed against a sweat damp mahogany coat and mane ...  
  
“It is safe to rest and regain our breath,” came a familiar … and very irritating voice, supporting Elrond's first command. Thranduil.  
  
Lindir couldn't remember what, but he knew something important and very horrible had just happened.  
  
“I owe him an apology,” a nearby voice … Beriadan? … chimed in. “I was wrong. I did not think him worthy, I misjudged. Your scholars are made of the same steel as your warriors, Lord Elrond.”  
  
“None of that, he is coming to. You can tell him yourself,” Thranduil's voice was forever haughty, and now unnervingly close.  
  
Lindir tried to open his eyes, but he could not. His face … felt wrong. His eyelids uncooperative.  
  
“Is anyone else injured?” Elrond's voice came again.  
  
“No. Not even a single horse, other than your gelding which we lost. All is well ...” Beriadan's voice came again.  
  
The minstrel was beginning to shiver, and he moaned when the warm weight he had been leaning against dismounted. But then strong hands were supporting him, and helping to lay him down in the grass, tugging away soaking cloth. “From my bag, Beriadan, a spare set of my robes. Bring me my healing pack as well.”  
  
Lindir was helpless as he continued to try and struggle his eyes open, coughing in distress when mountain wind touched his bare, wet skin. Of course, the embarrassment of being naked didn't last for long. He was toweled roughly, firmly, and he groaned when two strong sets of hands took over re-dressing him. One set were Elrond's. He knew his master's touch anywhere. The other belonged to …Beriadan?  
  
“My Lord,” he rasped, finally managing to open one swollen eye; he was shaken and exhausted. Elrond, though, only looked to have wet robes and … his gray eyes were very worried. For him?  
  
“Rest, Lindir. You have a broken nose, and the bone above your right eye has been cracked. You took a heavy strike. Do not fear, these are simple things to heal.”  
  
“But … my Lord...”  
  
“No complaining,” Elrond said with a bit of a laugh. This drew a few chuckles of relief from the elves assisting the peredhel as well. Perhaps it rankled a bit that they owed their life to a scholar, but Lindir had earned their respect. And that was a good start, both for relations between the two cities, and for him personally.  
  
Lindir tried to murmur about getting back to his duties, but a kind touch came to rest on his forehead, cutting off his words. Then there was a flow of healing warmth and the minstrel fell silent in relief. Someone was cradling his head gently against their shoulder, and the singer gave in; drifting by choice to avoid any thought of what had come to pass.  
  
Of course, the comfort, the healing energy, and the singer's ability to hide did not last forever. Soon enough he recognized the smell of Athelas, and someone was wiping his face with a damp cloth dipped in the tincture. Then he could fully open both eyes, and his vision was clear once more. It was Beriadan who held him carefully, and Elrond who was blotting at his wounds.  
  
Gray eyes brightened with relief when Lindir's confused honey-brown finally met them in return.  
  
“There we are. Welcome back, my brave minstrel,” Elrond said, his tone both fond and bemusedly cross.  
  
Lindir's only response was to burst into confused tears, which Elrond wiped away with the cloth while the Silvan captain had a second good chuckle.  
  
“My faithful attendant, do not weep. You are safe now, the danger has passed and all is well. All are grateful to you. Though later … I will explain to you just how idiotic what you did today was.”  
  
Lindir sat up from Beriadan's shoulder with a gasp, as if just remembering. He wasn't as upset about his own personal peril as ...  
  
“But … my horse. Your horse!” Lindir whispered, eyes wide with horror. Maybe he wasn't much of an equestrian, but that was no excuse to have drowned one of his master's horses! And it had been so afraid …  
  
That made the Silvan captain sigh. “You are as sweet as you are you high strung,” he told the musician. “It could not be helped. Your gelding made a noble sacrifice, and you had no choice. The larger goblins had war bows, and you could not have known the arrows would strike your mount and knock you into deep water. Do not think long on it.”  
  
Elrond seconded that statement by tucking his riding cloak tighter around Lindir's shoulders. This allowed him to keep the minstrel dry while he could combed out tangles, and re-braided his soaking wet hair. Eventually the caring interaction silenced the scholar's tears, and gave him another small dose of courage.  
  
The quiet that followed Lindir's return to consciousness had begun to grow heavy, though Thranduil was moving in the background, carefully checking on each of his men and their horses. The singer's eyes followed him curiously, still uncertain why the elf-king had turned back. Surely it had only been for Beriadan, and not himself … but deep down, the minstrel knew it was not so. He was not allowed to ponder long, though, as Elrond's gaze began to follow his; and when a dark and questioning eyebrow was raised, Lindir looked to his master, shaking his head apologetically. Before he could be asked, he broke the tension and said the first thing that came to mind:  
  
“His name was 'Violet' anyway. Maybe it was a kindness in the end ...”  
  
This drew a surprised bellow of laughter from Beriadan, and even Elrond could not help embracing his drooping attendant. If they could find humor in any of this, perhaps it was for the best. “I am sorry, Arwen did name him,” the peredhel apologized.  
  
Lindir's only response was to rest his head quietly on Elrond's shoulder, exhausted and grateful for the rest. Slowly, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. They had made the crossing after all. All that had been lost was his horse and his pack. It could have been much worse.  
  
~*~  
  
       Thranduil had passed out a bit of Miruvor to all involved in the crossing, and then Lindir had been mounted behind his lord for the remainder of the day's ride. He had been persuaded to wrap his arms around the peredhel’s waist for comfort, and the simple act eventually calmed his trembling. There was no denying that it was the singer’s favorite place to be, though none of the other elves said anything if they noticed. The scholar had earned his peace.  
  
Thankfully, the rest of the day's travel went along smoothly, and gradually, the musician had begun to look less traumatized, and more … curious. That was good; as Greenwood was a place of great beauty in its own right, and they had not yet come upon the forest proper.  
  
There was another small mercy in their day, and that was that the path between the ford and the Old Forest Road was guarded by Silvan elves. There was not a goblin to be seen, either; which was good because Lindir looked like he might suffer heart-failure if one were to appear, alive or dead. Scout after scout waved the party on, and by the time the sun had begun to set, the company found themselves deep within Greenwood the Great.  
  
That was when the minstrel sat up and began to take real interest.  
  
His voice was still rough, and his nose congested despite the healing, but he managed a few curious questions to his lord and the elves around him; thrilled on a scholarly level. Elrond was glad to see that enthusiasm more than most, because today he had been certain he had lost yet another important part of his life. It had frightened him on a level he would not admit. But almost did not count. And he made it a point to give a lecture later. One that involved discussing more martial training and perhaps … some equestrian lessons.  
  
As they rode deeper; Lindir continued his interrogation, and gradually the Silvan around them became warmer and more relaxed. They were at home, and flattered that the scholar was asking them about themselves. Of course the minstrel had read a great many things … but to see them, now that was a treat.  
  
By the time they arrived at the gap in the *Emyn Lûm, Lindir was swaying in the saddle. Of course he had not expected that they would be to Thranduil's Caverns by nightfall, and part of him wished to continue on, but … this was a safe place to stop, and the entire party was exhausted. There was no way that they could continue. Of course the faithful attendant's next set of worries surrounded the conditions of where they might be stopping for the evening ... but he took it back immediately when he found himself before the hidden fortress.  
  
For a basic fort and a stopover point between Thranduil's Caverns and **Ost Galadh … ***Ost Fuin took his breath away. It may have been less finely hewn than Imladris, and far less open, but it was majestic in its simplicity. Set back into the hills, tall wooden doors that blended in with the dark fir trees characteristic of the mountain range rose ahead of them; and outside them two Silvan elves kept watch. Behind the guards the stone walls of the fortress exposed small windows with firelight gleaming within; and decorative pillars that did not allow open air, but mixed elegantly into the moss along the side of the rock face gave the outside of the place an air of sophistication. This was far more than a cave. The tales did it little justice, and briefly Lindir felt some shame at thinking the Silvan beneath the elves of Imladris. Different perhaps … but not beneath.  
  
While Thranduil spoke with guards on duty; Elrond dismounted, as did the rest of the party. The minstrel, on the other hand, needed help getting down. He was still unsteady, though he did his best not to show it, and luckily his lord did not seem upset with him over his infirmity. Even Beriadan avoided any teasing when Elrond had to steady his attendant. Thankfully, that was all the more help Lindir needed; his injured pride was enough to carry him along once his feet were on the ground. And while he was somewhat frustrated with his level of uselessness, the determined musician managed to stiffly unbuckle his master's belongings from the saddle and shoulder them.  
  
There was a stable not far away where the horses could be kept, and Lindir would not worry about that detail of his duties. The elves here seemed good with animals. Better than himself, anyway. But that thought made his spirits plummet again; so shoving back any sad memories he tried to provide a pleasant face and a cheerful demeanor. Perhaps later he could enjoy a long and hot soak in a bath. Though first and foremost came his lord's needs. And whether it was with Thranduil, or with himself, he would see Elrond cared for.  
  
When they were granted entrance at last, and the great doors were opened to them, a blast of warmth met them along with the smell of roasting boar. Lindir and Elrond exchanged hopeful glances with each other as the King of Greenwood bid them all enter. A hot meal was desperately needed as well as a long night’s sleep.  
  
~*~  
  
       Lindir was relieved when Thranduil only spent a few precious minutes with his lord before vanishing into the halls, presumably to do whatever it was that the King of Greenwood needed to do. Before he left them, though, the minstrel noted that there was a strange look of regret and acceptance on that elegant face. And said expression haunted the singer's thoughts the entire length of the caves to where they would be spending their night.  
  
When at last they were shown into their quarters, which were small but incredibly comfortable, Lindir was once against surprised by the care with which the simple fort had been designed. Within their room was a natural hot-spring bathing chamber, which he could not wait to enjoy; while the main room held two beds that were elegantly carved, a fireplace, and a plush rug before it. Said beds were suspended on oak frames, and warg hide provided a strong mattress to hold furs, pillows and blankets. It was picturesque, and everything looked sinfully comfortable after cold ground and sleeping furs.  
  
Someone had even started a fire in the hearth; and by that cheerful light, the minstrel set Elrond's bags down. He looked forward to a hot plate of … anything, really. They had been promised that their meals would be delivered to them eventually, and that made sense as all present were far too tired for a feast this evening.  
  
And if he was honest, Lindir was more than comfortable with the idea of some peace and quiet.  
  
While his lord prepared to soak, stepping from his robes, the minstrel laid down the peredhel's sleeping furs and located a dry towel, favored soap and oils, a comb, and sleep clothing. Setting the items out as he needed to; he then drifted back into the bath, placing a towel beside the pool as well as the soap. Kneeling, he glanced to his master without really looking.  
  
“I will wash your hair, my Lord,” Lindir said softly, offering out a hand as if Elrond might require help in. And the whole time he was careful not to make eye contact. If he drew too much attention he would surely be reminded of his behavior today, and perhaps … he suddenly felt awkward around his master's nudity. When that had changed, the singer had no idea.  
  
But it certainly made the healer laugh.  
  
“It would please me, my minstrel, if you joined me instead. It is you who needs this more than I ...”  
  
At first the attendant flushed, suddenly intimidated to be alone with Elrond. Which was ridiculous, because he had spent many an hour in the baths with Glorfindel, Erestor, and his lord. He had raised the peredhel's family and cared for their every demand; and not once done anything improper. Well. Maybe once. But that had been recent.

Conduct said he should resist the invitation, but something had happened last night. Today? And everything had become new, different, and perhaps ... frightening. But deep in his heart, Lindir longed for any time like this, stolen from Thranduil or not, and he finally nodded in assent.  
  
Checking that the hall door was locked, he left his master only long enough to retrieve a second towel. And when he returned, he hesitantly eased himself out of his borrowed robes, folding them neatly. While he had been busy with that, the peredhel had finally waded in and settled; so Lindir kept his back to Elrond for the sake of modesty. Whether it was more for his benefit or his lord's, he could not be certain.  
  
“Lindir, I will not bite. Come in and rest. I know you have had a long day and that your body still aches. Elvish healing does not always convince every muscle and joint that everything is magically better,” Elrond said with a slight tilt of his head.  
  
When Lindir finally turned to look at his lord, it was as he feared. Inky hair cascaded into the steaming water, highlighting storm gray eyes and high cheek-bones. Lean muscle was sleek with water, and … his breath left him in a rush, and he thanked Elbereth that he had not had the same biological reaction that his heart had just experienced.  
  
“Yes, my Lord. Can I bring you anything before I–”  
  
“–Lindir, in.”  
  
This made the minstrel frown, but he did eventually do as he was bidden; wading in obediently. Once he was up to his waist in the hot water, he took in a sharp breath of pleasure. And under the master healer's watchful eye, he eased into a sitting position at the far end of the tub.  
  
There was a look on the peredhel's face just then; one that reminded the minstrel of when Elrond had been but an elfling, and a youthful Lindir had only just begun to learn the harp. The singer had thought he was terrible at music, but the curious and tender-hearted son of Elwing had found the bard irresistible. Lindir still wondered if his master remembered him. And if he did, he sincerely hoped he recalled _that_ instead of his attendant's failure to rescue him while the sons of Fëanor had laid waste to all he held dear.  
  
Swallowing hard the scholar tried to smile. “I did not know it was quite so pleasant here. Not grand, no, not perhaps as it once was. But to see it, my Lord, it is a marvel. I would never have had this opportunity were it not for you. Now, more than ever, I am thankful that you allowed me to accompany you on your journey.” Lindir was trying to make pleasant conversation to avoid a dressing down. That, and the hot water was stealing his desire to move.  
  
“Lindir,” Elrond began, and the minstrel's tired honey-brown fixed on him. He was about to say something about the day’s events, but then he thought better of it. Averting his eyes, the healer shook his head. “Nothing, I am sorry.” With the hint of a smirk, the peredhel reached down between them and lifted Lindir's injured leg into his lap.  
  
The minstrel opened his mouth to object that such assistance was not necessary; but then strong thumbs were digging into tight muscles, and soothing aches. The singer’s lips stayed parted mid-protest, eyes squinting closed in pleasure as he found himself praying for self-control. With clothing was one thing, but naked like this ...  
  
“I now know what to do if I ever need you to stop being polite and overly-worried,” the healer said, pleased that he could offer this and that it was helping. Of course, he eventually had to stop when Lindir looked like he might drown. Reluctantly the peredhel let go of the singer's leg, and turned him so that he … yes, he, could wash the smell of the Anduin from his minstrel's hair. Again, so briefly, the scholar tried to complain, but Elrond would hear none of it.  
  
~*~   
  
       When they both were well scrubbed and rinsed, a knock had come at their door; and it was Elrond who helped them both from the water. “That would be our meal,” the peredhel said, watching Lindir sway exhaustedly. Tonight, just for tonight, he would care for his attendant. It had been a hard day.  
  
Elrond re-dressed them both, himself in sleep clothes and Lindir back into his borrowed robes. Then, after setting the minstrel down in front of the fire with a comb so that he might dry his own hair; he brought the tray in from where it had been resting on a nearby hall table. Placing it down on the rug beside where they sat, the peredhel offered out a plate to the scholar. Having this sort of time between them was pleasingly informal, and they both ate in contented silence, neither wanting to put on a front.  
  
It took some convincing; but once they were done eating, Lindir eventually allowed the braiding of his hair. Unsurprisingly, he fumblingly returned the gesture a heartbeat later, but the peredhel had been able to convince him to allow some nurturing; and that was a good step between them. Elrond had promised to make amends, and he was attempting to do so.  
  
It was quite late by that time both elves were prepared for rest. Their dinner had been excellent, and the denizens from Imladris were warm, dry, full, and utterly exhausted. Of course the minstrel had lost his sleeping furs and spare clothing, and of course … Elrond had no desire to sleep alone and warm while his attendant shivered (comfortable though the room might be). So he invited him to share his bed.  
  
At first, the musician had balked out of 'propriety's sake'; but the longing to say yes was clear in those soulful eyes. This meant that it did not take the peredhel long to convince him. The night was growing darker outside their room's lone window; and that was when Lindir whispered to his master, his back turned to him trustingly, “Why did he come back for me, I do not understand. I thought for certain it was only for his captain, but … he clearly returned for me. Why? What was he thinking?”  
  
That question made Elrond chuckle, and then frown.  
  
“It is a perfectly fine question, and nearest I can tell … I believe he thinks highly of you. He does not risk his life for just anyone. Perhaps he felt responsible, but … I think his behavior falls more into the category of respect.”  
  
That made Lindir snort in surprise. “Respect? Does he respect anyone?”  
  
“You, apparently,” the peredhel replied drolly, pushing a second pillow over for the singer to use. The musician was shaking with the effort it took to stay awake and talk. “But enough of that. Do not think on it for the time being. Rest. There is time enough for that question, and a thousand more like it, in the morning.” That reply made Lindir hum sleepily in response, and by the time the peredhel had pulled his cloak over them both again and draped an arm over his attendant's side … the minstrel was asleep once more; body claiming respite from the fear of the day within his master's arms.  
  
      Elrond stayed up later, not able to sleep and busy contemplating what he had seen that day. He had been complimented on the bravery of his men before, but … for Lindir this had been tremendous. And had scared the peredhel so badly it hurt to think he might not have him now; and in more than one instance in the last week.  
  
Had his dreams been right? The half-elf looked down into that sleeping face, those dark brown lashes closed over a still slightly swollen cheek and the bridge of an aquiline nose. There he saw something that both terrified and amazed him. He saw a future. And something he had forgotten and could not recall. He saw bravery, and the ability to overcome. He saw … no. He would not say it aloud. One was never so lucky twice. Besides, he was not ready to admit that Thranduil was right. Not just yet.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**  
>  I cannot help feeling a little badly for Thranduil, even though this was part of his plan. I should also mention that I was deeply impressed by Lindir’s bravery, even if it was slightly suicidal … and amused at his innocent confusion regarding the things that have changed between himself and Elrond. One must also not forget Elrond’s stubborn denial while entertaining exactly what Thranduil wants him to; that was pretty rich as well. I’m sorry we’re not exactly in the heart of spider country yet, but we needed a pause for some character growth. Hope you enjoy~
> 
>  **Werds and Stuffs :**  
>  *Emyn Lûm ((Mountains of Darkness/Shadow )) It can be debated whether they were named this before or after that nasty Necromancer moved into the neighborhood. BUT! It is mentioned that before that happened the mountains in that area were heavily forested with “dark fir trees’. So! Since we don’t have any sort of real clear history about Greenwood before it became Mirkwood I figured this would work. Especially since we got no creativity in the name of “Caverns of Thranduil” 
> 
> **Ost Galadh ((Fortress of Trees)) A town in Lord of the Rings Online in the southern parts of Mirkwood. Since there is no information on Greenwood before it became Mirkwood, and one does not have an entire kingdom based around one city, I sort of kidnapped this place and used it. <3 
> 
> ***Ost Fuin ((Fortress of Darkness/Shadow)) The bloody fortress needed a name >.>
> 
> I would also like to add that I'm really not into criticism. Some things mentioned here are head-canon and not perfectly true to Tolkien. I'm writing this story for my own entertainment. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't, well, no one is making you read it and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Beta Credit: All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
> Zeta Reader: All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond begins to fade to his grief. Who will heal the healer? A story of things lost, and found.

**  
****Chapter Twelve:**  
  
      Lindir dreamed; and found himself in a nightmare that he was growing increasingly familiar with. Unfortunately, he could not pinch himself awake. Always the story unfolded the same, and he was helpless to do anything but participate. Even now, even with his lord's arms around him, the darkness plucked unrelentingly at his psyche. Everything was shadow, and he was lost within it. The only sound that came to his ears was one that was far too intimate.  
  
Elrond's heart.  
  
The echo of that heartbeat guided the minstrel downward into the inexorable plunge ... and he fought the pull. He did not want to go, but he had no choice. If it had been fate itself that strung him along, he would have had more luck turning back.  
  
And he tumbled into the empty nightfall.  
  
It was dark, and it remained dark for some time; but the pitch eventually yielded, and Lindir found himself feeling his way down an ancient set of spiral steps. Looking up in the half-light proved that he could not return the way he had come. Far below there was a glow, and a blur of ghostly white motion. It might have led him to his death, but it was better than the nothing he had just emerged from.  
  
Cautiously, the scholar began to descend towards the light. The steps steadily grew more treacherous until he could go no further; and as he wavered on the edge of one last decrepit stone, unable to turn back and unable to go forward, the stairway crumbled away beneath his feet.  
  
Despite his plummet, the minstrel was too terrified to scream. Besides, experience had taught him that he would never hit bottom. And he was right. Eventually the sensation of falling evaporated, and the dream wavered back into focus with a stomach wrenching jerk. This pause in the sequence always gave the scholar a misleading chance to catch his breath. Of course, the air left his lungs again when he realized where he was.  
  
He found himself transported back in time to a day many months ago, and walking down a long hall that he had come to dread. Laced with moonlight the corridors welcomed the echo of dainty footsteps, and the Lady Celebrían wavered into view before him, ghostly in a white gown. He knew she was dead. She was dead! … and still he followed her with a sense of urgency.  
  
The desire to protect her always rose up so quickly in his heart.  
  
Lindir sensed that something was wrong, and he wanted to warn her; but she seemed intent to toy with him instead. Always he would catch a glimpse of her, smiling to him just before she would duck out of sight around a bend in the hall or a door frame.  
  
He followed.  
  
He knew she had sailed, he knew she was dead and gone; still, he could not fight the sense of urgency, and his walk grew swifter until he was running as fast as he could. But, as it was in dreams, he could scarcely move, and the corridor grew impossibly longer, and she …

Continued to drift further away, no matter how he tried to reach her.  
  
When Lindir's lungs started to burn and he could no longer go on, he fell to his knees in denial. He knew what came next. He knew, and he hated it. His stomach churned, and suddenly it was not sweat that dampened his brow, but blood. It ran down his face like tears, staining the backs of his hands and the floor ...  
  
Then the corridor began to fill up, crimson rising like flood-waters, sticky and red. And he could feel it. The pulse of it against his hand as the blade of the knife slowed in its motion. He cried out, voice ragged, but as he did he swallowed _it_. Mouthfuls of copper ... and for a deviant new twist, the bygone day's memory mixed with that of her death. The scrape of dagger against bone and the laugh of goblins …  
  
He saw her floating serenely, cold and still upon the hot tide; hands across her chest as they had been on her funerary barge. He reached out for her as if he could pull her back, desiring to pluck her from the darkness and press her back into his lord's arms. But he could not ... and then he was drowning, the blood welling up around him and he struggled. Fighting for air, to breathe, to protect …  
  
“ _Wake, Lindir,”_ a powerful voice intruded on his sleep.  
  
      The minstrel jerked upright; instinctively responding to his master's call. “My lord!” Lindir gasped, honey-brown eyes flying open as he clawed for purchase in his fright. Elrond's arms went around him at that; the strong hands of a healer carding through the singer’s hair.  
  
The taste of blood was still in Lindir’s mouth; he had bitten his lip. That must have been reason for part of his dream. But he was still terrified; none of what was happening to him seemed rational, even with a believable explanation. No matter how many times he had this nightmare, always it left him shaken and soaked in sweat.  
  
Coughing to clear his throat of the bright taste of copper, the singer looked up to his master. Safe. They were safe in their shared room in Ost Fuin; the fire was still warm and bright, and his lord … Elrond was luminous in the gloam. As beautiful as a star, and as warm and comforting as the depth of a midsummer night.  
  
He also looked concerned. The healer’s brow was furrowed.  
  
“You dreamed,” Elrond murmured. “It was only a dream. It cannot hurt you any longer.”  
  
Lindir worried as he sat back and looked into intense gray, wondering what he might have said or done in his sleep. The last thing he wanted to do was burden his master. His master who lay so close, whose warm touch he could not hide from. Who had, no doubt, seen what he had dreamed. The singer blushed at the thought, bowing his head.  
  
“Did you see?” He asked dejectedly, the color over the tops of his ears worsening.  
  
Elrond chuckled at that, the sound not unkind, and perhaps far too empathetic. “I did not see, my faithful friend. There was nothing to see but you weeping in your sleep. That was what woke me.”  
  
A sidelong glance from Lindir proved that there was untruth in the healer's expression. He also knew that very few would have seen it for what it was. The peredhel was a master of self-control, and if he had any skill in glamour, it had its roots in power of countenance and posture. But the singer had been Elrond’s faithful attendant for years longer than a man could number, and little was hidden from him, either. It took a good deal of practice to read the stars, but it could be done.  
  
“Oh,” the Minstrel replied, as unconvinced as his master was unconvincing.  
  
Elrond's hands captured his chin, then, guiding him until they were so close they could have kissed; and Lindir's heart began to race once more.  
  
“How long have you suffered nightmares, Lindir?” The healer pried, using his sleeve to blot the corner of the musician's mouth.  
  
At that, fear lanced through the singer, and he could not meet his master's gaze. He was afraid to say the wrong thing, so he made up as believable of a lie as his lord. “'twas only of the river, and nothing more. It is to be expected,” he replied haltingly.  
  
“Oh,” Elrond echoed, equally unbelieving.  
  
It was by some sort of quiet consensus that both elves fell silent, letting the matter drop.  
  
Lindir was still shaking, but he did not fight when his lord laid him back down to the blankets, tucking him closer to his side while rubbing his back. “Try to go back to sleep. It will be a long ride tomorrow, and I will need you close,” the healer murmured, voice low in the quiet of the night.  
  
And as it always was, Lindir could not resist. Not when they were this near, not when their heartbeats were practically one. And as the minstrel fell deeply, tumbling past dreams and into utter exhaustion; he thought he heard his lord murmur something. But the furs were close around him, and the fire was crackling far too cozily for him to worry any further.  
  
And in the end, he lost the battle to stay awake; his pain and fears forgotten once more.  
  
He was safe in Elrond's arms.  
  
~*~  
  
      Lindir had been asleep for mere minutes before Elrond disentangled himself and rose from bed, restless. Something low in his chest was tight as he gave the brunet elf a body-warmed pillow to curl against in his absence, then covered him carefully with a cloak. The minstrel was really and truly too exhausted to dream further, and that was best.  
  
Elrond had awoken when he had heard _her_ name on the singer's lips … crying out for her like that, and in fear; it had been too much for him to bear. Worse yet, he was not certain he had the strength to help his attendant through another such nightmare; nor the endurance to keep facing the endless emptiness for the both of them. For his city. For his people.  
  
There was a mix of emotions in himself that he could not sort out, and he was uncertain what to do with all of them.  
  
He could scarcely comfort himself, let alone his minstrel; and once again he could not stand at Lindir's side when he needed him. The healer knew that he was being faithless. He felt guilt at that admittance. Guilt for her death, and even … guilt that his attendant had been left to face it on his own, and was being forced to do so again.  
  
The fear Lindir must have experienced when he had found Celebrían and been unable to help her … it gnawed at the peredhel. Not once had the other elf asked for help. Not once had he cried out. He had borne the pain, and attended and protected his lord penitently; asking nothing for himself. Not until now. And as it was with his family, the one thing Lindir needed, the healer did not think he could give.  
  
Elrond would possibly go so far as to say he was selfishly guarding himself; and he knew that had to change, too. That was why he was here. To shed his skin, to give up what was killing him, and to grasp on to what he still had before it was too late.  
  
But even as a half-elf, alteration came with a price.  
  
And now that he had admitted such things, the peredhel knew he had to offer Lindir something. And that frightened him. Because he _wanted_ to, but he wasn't certain he was ready. Yet something big, something undeniably larger than himself—and even, perhaps, greater than his bond with his wife—had stirred when he had attempted to heal the minstrel for the first time. And he could not turn his back on that, no matter how painful of a truth it was.  
  
Such thoughts made something low in Elrond's stomach knot, though, and he quickly became too restless to entertain the depth of the concept. The room felt like it was closing in, and he felt guilty, knowing what he was about to do was foolish. But a last glance proved Lindir to be resting peacefully; which was enough for him.  
  
Ignoring that he was dressed in sleep robes, he let himself out into the unfamiliar hallway to began his exploration. The fortress was not that big, and he knew that it would not take long for him to locate what … or more aptly _who_ he was looking for.  
  
~*~  
  
      A courtier eventually tracked Elrond down in the corridors, finding him weaving in and out amongst the ornate carvings, and showing deep interest in the architecture. The other elf did not look surprised in the slightest to find him there, stating that he had been searching for him to extend an invitation from his king. And the peredhel believed him. There was an odd push and pull between himself and Thranduil, and he had known that when both of them had settled their men, they would naturally gravitate toward one another. They always did.  
  
He then allowed himself to be led to a distant set of halls. The fort was longer than it was tall, and the remote spacing spoke of hidden opulence. The walk was far, and full of a surprising number of dwarvish looking murals; but that was not what piqued Elrond's curiosity. It was silence of the courtier. And when at last they arrived at their summoned destination, the healer found his first guess to be correct.  
  
Sumptuous was a good word.  
  
A tall set of double doors were opened before him, and an antechamber with a reflection pool was only one of the features of the space he was directed to occupy. Beyond the antechamber was a set of luxurious personal quarters, decorated in crimsons and golds. All of it spoke deeply of the forest's king, whom his eyes swept past on his first investigation of the master quarters. He had just turned to thank the attendant who had led him; but found him already gone and the doors closed. A second look into the bed-chamber left no doubt in Elrond's mind as to why.  
  
Thranduil stood, his back to the hall door. He wore the thinnest of crimson silk robes, the fabric sliding from a lean shoulder; and the peredhel's breath left him in a rush. The garment was untied, obviously not closed in the front if one could judge from the fall of silk.  
  
And suddenly, the healer knew what this was.  
  
He did not have to be summoned closer, for his feet carried him like an elf bewitched; and he glided to a halt at Thranduil's right hand. For the longest time neither elf acknowledged the other, but Elrond stood tall. His dark hair was tangled around his shoulders, free of its braids, and his simple sleep clothing was disarrayed from his walk. Equally, the Greenwood's king bore no adornment but his robe, echoing the simplicity of their meeting and the raw honesty of the hurt to come.  
  
Fabric was just a concession to modesty, something that was not necessary any more than speech was.  
  
This was goodbye, and Elrond's heart began to race.  
  
_Not yet. Please, not yet._  
  
He reached out, touching that moonlight pale shoulder, feeling the warmth of the muscle beneath; and he tasted it, feeling it like a yawning divide. The separation of heart and duty. And he understood. The taller elf did not flinch from the intimacy, moreover he moved into it hungrily; and there was an understanding and echoing fear in the gesture.  
  
It was breaking. This fragile thing was shattering between them for no reason whatsoever. Just as the ice cracked on the lakes as spring encroached; there was a thaw. A need, a motion hesitating in cold blue eyes. Their summer had passed, and this meeting, this bridge across troubled waters was shaken at its foundations. And Elrond knew why. Perhaps it was wisest to move on, but part of him was breaking apart at the mere thought of what he was losing again. Had he ever trusted? Perhaps not at all. Perhaps too much.  
  
“Here?” The healer whispered. “Why now?” he asked as Thranduil turned into him; the strong hands of a warrior seeking Elrond's hips, pulling him closer, tangling them both into the silk of golden waves and red the color of fresh spilt blood.  
  
The peredhel gasped, and then there was no more need for talk. Thranduil had never been his to hold. To keep. One could not cup a butterfly tightly without crushing its wings. And while Elrond desperately wanted to hold on, he let go instead. This would be the last between them. This would be the final time heart and body would soar, and he gave in. He would deny neither of them. He wanted to ask ‘why’ once more, but he knew this could never be. This was not his, any more than he was Thranduil's. He knew where his heart truly belonged, and neither sire could deny it.  
  
But this was easy and so beautiful; and the master healer needed to cling to the bittersweet lie for a little while longer. Just … a few minutes more. And that was what he got. Soon their mouths were clashing; the strength of the other elf-lord twice as compelling with their combined desperation. And when Thranduil removed a vial from his robe pocket, clasping it tightly against his palm with his thumb, the peredhel shuddered in response.  
  
Elrond unapologetically pushed the robe from the elf-king's shoulders, letting the silk pool at their feet; and when his sleep clothes joined the pile, he took over; guiding them back until Thranduil had no choice but to sit on a nearby ottoman. The calloused hands of a swordsman were stroking fearlessly along the half-elf's shoulders and back, pulling them as close as they could be. They both were frantic, and in mutual agreement. Neither wanted the pain that would follow, and so Elrond urged them further and faster as the Sinda struggled the phial in his hands open.  
  
After a few more desperate caresses, Elrond ended up sitting astride Thranduil's thighs, arching them together as he found purchase and position. Thus settled, the peredhel stole kisses along the side of that silky neck and shoulder while oil slick length and fingertips began to work against him; and he growled his approval. The sound was hungry, unrefined, and desperate, and so was Thranduil's free hand against his shoulders and hips. They both were taking. They both needed this last memory.  
  
When the pale elf finally breached Elrond's body; when he slid deep and fast, and pain lanced up the healer's spine, the peredhel did not stop. Though he did moan, and Thranduil cried out, too, his grip equally frantic. The memory of sweat, fireplace, and the crush of velvet beneath their bodies … it became a rhythm, a last page in a very long diary. Each word was written as a stroke between the two, and neither could yield or let go.  
  
Twice. They both finished twice, the second time more bitter than the first; and when they had stilled, when all that remained was the sound of rough breath and swallowed sound, Elrond was shaking.  
  
“Go to him,” Thranduil commanded, the edge of tears in his voice.  
  
And there were no last words. There was no last meeting of gazes. Neither of them wanted to look back. All that remained was an odd, broken-winged respect. And Elrond stood; knowing better than to complain or even speak. The sensation of that silky skin against his had torn open something inside of him that he did not know could still bleed.  
  
The peredhel re-dressed emotionlessly, knowing the trickle down the back of his leg was more than just seed. It had been rough, and he was hurting. The physical pain was welcome, though, and a further distraction. He did not look back, and he did not need an attendant to show him the way to Lindir's side.  
  
~*~  
  
      When the door opened, the minstrel was already awake. Instinct had told him that whatever had happened … had gone badly. And he was right. He set his borrowed dagger aside the instant he saw his lord. He recognized the look on that pale face. His master reeked of sex, and his expression was devoid of life. Lost. Lindir saw the blood, the sweat soaking through night clothes, and bit his lip.  
  
Standing he padded over to the other, and for a time this was not his lord. This was the elfling that he had always been unable to save; and when he put his arms around him, Elrond fell against the minstrel's shoulder, sobbing silently. And Lindir stood there, bearing his lord's weight, feeling his tears, hot against against his skin through his borrowed robes. Shaking. Elrond was shaking.  
  
“Come,” the brunet elf whispered when the healer began to falter.  
  
      And Lindir said nothing further when he guided Elrond into the bathing room. When he undressed him, the scholar could not help his sharp intake of breath. There were scrapes from blunt nails across lean shoulders, bruises from a harsh grasp of hip bones, and the trickle of blood down the back of a pale and muscular thigh. It took all he had, but the singer held his tongue, easing his lord into the bath instead of speaking out as he wanted to. This was not a wound that could be bandaged, and Lindir was certain that only hot water could help. That, and time.  
  
The peredhel was brokenly obedient, and he slumped where he sat; his head resting against the edge of the spring, his posture one of surrender. He had given up, he had shattered, and Lindir could do nothing but hold him. This wasn't rape, the singer knew it wasn't. He had seen well the aftermath of _that_. This was different. He understood that his lord was prone to punishing himself and his body, and he had no doubt that there were similar, fast-healing marks on Thranduil's form. Not that he wanted to think of that. Not right now. He could not feel anger. His lord would misunderstand, and this moment was so fragile that he dared not let the peredhel think for an instant that he was unwanted or alone.  
  
When at last, Elrond's eyes closed, Lindir sat beside the water and carefully lifted his master's head into his lap, (It was much kinder than the hard rock at the edge of the tub.) and he began to sing as he stroked the tangles free of that inky silky. He thought perhaps his actions weren't helping, but eventually a strong hand came up to tuck a tendril of Lindir's hair back behind his ear. The touch was welcome, and deep in the minstrel’s chest the song began to well up. Not the one on his lips, but the one that recognized hidden hurt. Especially his lord’s.  
  
When gray eyes, shockingly wounded in the low light, opened to met his honey-brown … when their souls collided, Lindir bit back a groan of empathetic pain. Why. Why would Thranduil break his lord? Why, when he held something so precious, would one elf-lord do this to another? Especially when they both knew so well the wages of loss.  
  
“It is done,” Elrond finally said, his voice full of exhaustion and finality in the dark of the private bath. It splintered the silence, and some of the repressed anger and pain seeped from the room. From both of them.  
  
“I understand,” Lindir replied, interrupting his song to bow his head and press a chaste kiss to this master's aching brow. He could not comprehend it at all; but Elrond accepted the lie as gracefully as he did every aspect of his attendant. The kiss found the healer trembling again, and it broke the scholar from his reverie.  
  
Silent tears ran down the half-elf's face, and Lindir could only stroke his hair and temples.  
  
“Let me help?” Lindir pleaded. “Please, my Lord, let me?”  
  
So this was what he had been taught for, this moment. Lindir could almost feel Maglor's hands on his, and hear the other minstrel's steady and calming voice. Fear of failure drifted away completely when the singer remembered he had been born for this purpose. To heal broken spirits. To help Elrond. His gift was a gift, even if found late.  
  
He could help.  
  
_... Find your heartbeats. Match them as one._  
  
Elrond's wet gray eyes met Lindir's; and the understanding only struck them the moment before the singer's power twined with the peredhel's once again. Like the first time, there was no affirmative, there was no disagreement. There was only the sensation of unleashed power between them ... and Lindir reached inside, feeling his energy move like invisible hands until he could touch where it hurt. Where his master's soul ached. Tenderly he covered the wound, lips moving silently to the words of a song that only he knew. His. Elrond was his to protect, and to love, and to serve … and he would do so until his last breath.  
  
He had purpose without his lord, but with him he was so much more. And whole.  
  
Elrond made a sound of relief, hands coming up to clasp Lindir's forearms, and the minstrel did not flinch back. He used his own energy to cover the wound inside; bandaging spiritually even as his hands began to slip beneath the water. And the peredhel, not releasing his arms, carefully followed the gesture. Tenderly the musician began to wash that lean form, each touch chaste but comforting; and soap and bath oil quickly replaced the scent of rough sex and grief.  
  
~*~  
  
      Lindir gave all he had until Elrond was practically sleeping on his shoulder, and the minstrel's arms were the only thing that kept the half-elven from drowning in the bath. Then, at last, the singer carefully withdrew his energy. The healer made a sound of objection at that, and Lindir apologized quietly. It was all he could give tonight. His head was aching, but Elrond's tears had dried and his body was cleaned of the night's travails. It was worth it, the minstrel's sacrifice small for the comfort he had just purveyed.  
  
The careful attendant then guided his master to his feet, dried him with a clean towel, and steered him back to the bed they had been sharing. Nude. Because Lindir was entirely too tired to be bothered with dirty clothing. Elrond was more important right now, and as he lay the other down amongst the sheets, he examined him one last time. The physical bleeding had stopped, and as it was for any strong elf-lord, the bruises and marks were already fading. It was a start, and in the morning, Lindir would continue to patch together what had been returned to him so carelessly mishandled.  
  
At any other time he would have blushed or even felt embarrassed, but this night he lay down boldly, wrapping himself around his master, and curling them safely into the furs.  
  
“It will all seem better in the morning light,” Lindir whispered.  
  
And an overwhelmed peredhel nodded back to him weakly.  
  
It was also possible that in the morning, the singer would find and injure Thranduil. He was angry and determined enough to accomplish that much. But for tonight? Tonight. Elrond lay naked, warm, and trusting in his arms. And he would not betray him.  
  
His headache was beginning to worsen, but Lindir thought nothing of it. He would sleep through it, and perhaps it would recede before they rode on. _Riding on._ The thought of even having to look at the Woodland King filled him with spite; and he hoped that his even temperament and breeding would be enough to help him hold his tongue.  
  
He and Elrond both needed no more strain during their journey.  
  
~*~  
TBC  
~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wow. I know it's a shorter chapter, but it was a really loaded one and I didn't want to make it needlessly long. Don't worry too much about Thranduil, okay? He's taking it better than you think. And I am totally going to make it up to him, either in this fic or outside it as a small ficlet. <3 He also isn't disappearing from this fic. I promise.
> 
> Anyway, Things are moving along, and next chapter should most likely be the spider-apocalypse chapter. (You know, the one you've all been looking forward to. ^_^ ) I hope you enjoy your read~
> 
> I would also like to add that I'm really not into criticism. Some things mentioned here are head-canon and not perfectly true to Tolkien. I'm writing this story for my own entertainment. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't, well, no one is making you read it and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Beta Credit: All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
> Zeta Reader: All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond begins to fade to his grief. Who will heal the healer? A story of things lost, and found.

**  
Chapter Thirteen:** **  
  
** Lindir awoke with a herd of wild horses trampling about inside of his head; or at least, that was what it felt like. He couldn't remember where he was or why his head hurt, but he knew he wasn't alone. There was the sound of rustling silk ... the scent of fresh forest air beside him; and arms he would have known anywhere settled around him and drew him woozily upright. His eyes could not focus and everything was too bright, so he closed them tightly to avoid being sick.  
  
"Lord Elrond?" he whispered.  
  
He understood that something important had happened. Something he should recall. He was certain that he had a task he should be attending; but there was no way that he could. Not when he felt like this. Briefly he wondered if he would die, because that was how it felt. Poison. Had he been poisoned?  
  
"Can you drink this for me?" that smooth and comforting voice asked, intruding on his thoughts.  
  
The singer would withstand anything if it made his head stop hurting. What had he done? He still could not remember.  
  
"Lindir?"  
  
The minstrel summoned up enough strength to nod in reply ... and instantly regretted it. The gesture made it feel like his skull would burst.  
  
"Can ... not ... move," the singer grit out weakly.  
  
"Very well, then."  
  
A strong shoulder steadied him, and a decanter full of something cool and sweet smelling was pressed against his lips. At first the brunet elf tried to pull away; but Elrond held him supportively. "Drink," the healer reminded, fingertips teasing along the scholar's bared throat until he had no choice but to comply.  
  
The first swallow nearly made Lindir sick. Whatever he had just downed was so saccharine it might as well have been honey, and was almost as thick and creamy. His stomach tried to rebel for a second time, but Elrond's free hand migrated from throat to belly, stroking soothingly as the singer took another involuntary mouthful of the potion.  
  
"Keep drinking. Slowly. It will help you feel better, even though such a thing is hard to believe," the half-elf murmured, mindful of his patient's headache. Lindir made a pitiful sound in reply, and Elrond comforted him with a gentle stroke along his side. The healer knew that the headache and nausea would improve very soon ... and he was correct. Just when he thought that the singer was going to pull away and begin to fight him, some of the tension left that pained brow.  
  
Elrond could tell that the draught in question had just gone from the vilest thing in Arda to one of the best, and he chuckled when the minstrel impatiently took the flask from him and continued to drink it of his own accord. "Better?" he asked.  
  
"Much ... what has happened?" Lindir rasped out between sips. Recovering himself, he found his head heavily resting against his lord's shoulder and his body starting to respond to his command. Even his vision had begun to clear; and when at last the pitcher was empty, Elrond took it from his hand and set it aside.  
  
"Did Glorfindel not warn you? Obviously, he must not have," the peredhel asked.  
  
Lindir blinked, vaguely remembering a warning from Maglor about ... oh. So the Lord of the Golden Flower had not been fooled in the slightest, either. That was why the warrior had insisted on feeding Lindir an entire tray full of sweets that night in the baths ...  
  
"Healing sickness?" the musician asked. He understood his symptoms well enough, now. "This is what it is like? Oh Elbereth! Is this what it is like for you, my Lord?" Lindir sat back and away from Elrond, and without thinking his hands cupped the peredhel's face; fearless in his worry. Especially now that he was coherent enough to recall the night before. Once more, concern painted the singer's brow into a troubled line; and he read his lord's expression like a book. "The draught you just gave me ... you went out into the forest long before dawn and brought back ..."  
  
"It is a type of honeysuckle nectar unique to the plants of this forest. It was mixed with bee's honey and fresh cream to make it less overwhelming. Our hosts are actually quite concerned for you. I skipped some of the finer details when explaining your situation, but they, and I, were more than glad to be of assistance." Elrond's hands came up to take Lindir's, strong thumbs caressing the back of the minstrel's. He could taste the change between them, just as the singer could. Something had happened in the dark hours the night prior. Something powerful and undeniable. And painful. So very painful. "You cradled my heart in extremely bleak hours, and gave me back my breath. For that ..." He trailed off as he lowered his hands, taking his attendant's with them in one smooth motion.  
  
The peredhel's gray gaze was misty when he finally broke eye contact; and when he rested his cheek atop Lindir's head, the slighter elf did not fight it. His master had ... thanked him. No. Elrond had thanked him. The singer's hands squeezed his lord's certainly in return; the gesture surprising even him. This change between them ...  
  
"You were hurt. He had no right to break your heart like that, nor bruise your body. I know you think you wanted it to be so, but I did not. I never want to see anyone treat you in such a manner again," Lindir murmured. And then, before he could stop himself, his lips had found Elrond's pulse. He kissed there tenderly, submissively, and felt his lord take in a sharp breath.  
  
The nectar had given the musician some of his strength back; enough to worry, enough to feel how fragile the peredhel was inside ... and enough to comprehend just how dangerous the game his master and Thranduil had been playing, was.  
  
But there was something else.  
  
Something that was uniquely ... them. It was too soon to say what was in his heart, but he knew the song was there, waiting patiently for the moment he had the courage and the time was right. Even now he fretted that he had overstepped; but when he felt his lord's lips pressed to his hair in a tender return gesture, that fear fled and his pulse began to race.  
  
"Stay. Stay like this with me. Just for a few minutes longer," the peredhel pleaded, and Lindir's gentle heart broke at the quaver in Elrond's voice.  
  
"My Lord, I will stay by your side always," the minstrel said honestly, his swallowed words aching in his chest.  
  
"I know. And you have no idea how undeserving I am of such devotion," Elrond replied wearily.  
  
"My Lord, why do you not let me decide who is, and is not, worthy of my 'devotions'?" the singer whispered. "I have chosen you, and I will remain. You are my heart."  
  
Elrond stiffened in surprise at those words, but he did not let go. Instead he gazed down at an exhausted Lindir like he had never truly seen him before. And perhaps he hadn't.  
  
"Come. A hearty meal will do well by both of us, and then we will ride the last leg of our journey," Elrond said. But he didn't stand or attempt to push Lindir away. Instead he spent a goodly length of time just breathing in, and holding his attendant close.  
  
The peredhel was cradling his safety in his arms, his home ... and he knew it. And that terrified him beyond words.  
  
~*~  
  
      After a short time considering the stained sleep clothes his master had worn the night before, Lindir completed packing Elrond's belongings. Just looking at the drops of blood on the fabric had filled his heart with outrage. How could _anyone_ have someone so good and not care for them? How could they! How dare they!  
  
Honestly, he didn't know how he would contain his temper when he and his master had to share the commons with ... _that_ ... for the morning meal; but he would have to. A mere minstrel could say and do nothing against Thranduil. But that did not mean he would not be contemplating it. Oddly enough, a week ago he would never have allowed himself more than a passing thought of anger. Now ... now Elrond's eyes were following his every motion as if he had never seen his attendant before ... and perhaps he hadn't. Perhaps Lindir had never seen himself. He did not know if he was more proud of the changes within his heart … or baffled by them.  
  
So much had happened in only a few days' time. Normally the singer would have berated himself for not washing his lord's clothing and having it dried and presentable again in the morning. But ... no. He had a different set of priorities this dawn, and it was not with robes, belongings, or earthly things. It was his master's heart.  
  
Erestor and Glorfindel had demanded the musician care for their lord, and Lindir had sworn that he would. More than that, for the first time since he could remember ... he felt as if he had a place. And guilt and pain aside ... Elrond _was_ his. Perhaps not to love, though he longed for that, too.  
  
He had made a vow last night. More than anything he wanted his master to be happy again, and he would march to war for that. He finally believed in something enough to do so. Nothing good in life was attained without a struggle, and so he would fight; with quill, voice, and harp if those were the only weapons allotted him. He belonged somewhere; and he knew that because for the first time in his life, he wasn't running away. He would stand, and he would face whatever came to pass.  
  
~*~  
  
      The minstrel could scarcely feel the leftover headache or the cramp in his leg when he handed over their baggage to an attendant in the hall. For once, someone else could carry their packs to the stables. Now, more than ever, he and his master would truly need to act the part of visiting dignitaries. The singer would give no one cause to look down their nose at his lord, even if the peredhel and Thranduil were no longer lovers. Nor would he give the Silvan leeway to spurn Imladris based on his behavior.  
  
... But judging from the gaping of the elves they encountered in the hall, he had little to worry about in that department. He and his master were dressed imposingly enough for ten elf lords.  
  
Elrond wore his sword at his hip, and Lindir was armed again; his lent dagger tucked into the waistband of his borrowed robes. Together the two looked well-traveled and insurmountable. But Elrond ... his Lord looked stunning; his hair neatly braided and a fine riding suit adoring his healthily broadening frame. He did not look dispirited. He did not look tired and aching, even if he was. And in that, there was promise. That, and the minstrel was determined that Thranduil would regret casually discarding such a gift.  
  
There was still hope. And for the first time, the scholar was going to battle for every ounce of it.  
  
~*~  
  
      Elrond was grateful when Lindir did not physically or verbally attack Thranduil in the main halls.  
  
The minstrel had been on high alert since they had left their rooms, but he had remained polite enough when the object of his upset did not appear over the morning meal. Thankfully, the King of Greenwood had decided to take breakfast in his own quarters; which had given the Lord of Imladris and his minstrel time to consult with their company, as well as the elves of Ost Fuin. There had been many a tale of odd occurrences in the forest ... some which might have held a grain of truth.  
  
Now they were moving on, and Beriadan was leading them to the stables while Thranduil ... was taking a moment to address the men he would leave behind. The speech in question was long winded and pompous; but familiarity must have bred respect amongst the elves of the Greenwood, as the elf-king's words of encouragement were met by cheers. Lindir him might have rolled his eyes once or ... three times as they walked past, but Elrond would never tell. The company had a long road yet ahead of them; and being as he and his attendant were both guests in a foreign land, he would avoid conflict at all cost, even if it was briefly tempting.  
  
There was that, and then ... the peredhel's heart was heavy in a way that left him dispirited once again. It was all gone now, and he could not ... how could he burden Lindir with such dark emotions? Thranduil had to be wrong. The visions had to be wrong! It was not possible ... and Elrond ached for things to go back to how they had been most recently. The elf-king had been an uncomplicated support in his life and now ... the healer was left with more questions than answers.  
  
But when they entered the deep forest near the stables, and the healer beheld his minstrel a few steps ahead ... something indefinable within him began to change. To fight him, to move without his permission. And then he saw Lindir. Physically ... for the first time.  
  
The Lord of Imladris had never before appreciated how lovely his attendant was. Yes of course those arresting honey-brown eyes were a given, but in the borrowed robes of an elf-lord with his hair so neatly braided—some chestnut strands sweeping free where the forest winds caught them—he was stunning. The joy and curiosity on that elegant face had not yet been lost, and that pale skin had begun to color to a light golden tan from the last few days of sun. He saw. Lindir. And it took his breath away. Full of life and determination, serious to only half a fault; and steadfast in a way that no other had ever been in his life. _Lindir_.  
  
"My Lord?" the minstrel's voice cut through his stupor, and when he blinked again the singer was standing before him, his hand extended as if he might touch his sleeve. "Are you well, have you seen something? You look pale."  
  
Half the party had turned to stare at them, and his attendant had placed himself like a protective wall between Elrond and their prying eyes.  
  
"No, my friend. I am sorry. I was lost in the scenery. Long has it been since I have visited the Greenwood."  
  
"Of course," Lindir said as he lowered his hand and bowed.  
  
Elrond knew the brunet elf had not believed him for a second; but would not press him, either. At times, discretion was everything.  
  
~*~  
  
      The rest of the walk was short, and when the party was finally mounted and prepared to depart, the peredhel came to the full realization that things couldn't stay the same. And that maybe they shouldn't. Perhaps it was the way Beriadan's eyes appraisingly followed the sway of Lindir's hips when he walked. Perhaps it was when the minstrel had swung up behind Elrond, and into the space left for him more fearlessly than he ever had before ... But if Lindir could change, so could his lord.  
  
Then and there the healer vowed he would find himself again, even if he was weary or downtrodden. There was a future still to be had, for those bold enough to grasp it. Reflexively, his free hand came to rest over one of Lindir's where it clutched at his waist. He had been given not one, but two chances; and he could not keep making the same mistakes. He could not weep forever. She would not want that, and strangely enough, he knew Thranduil didn't either.  
  
He finally had the answer to his question from the night prior. _Why now?_ Because if he waited any longer, he would lose this chance. The King of Greenwood was right in that assessment.  
  
~*~  
  
      The ride had been long, but uneventful. Nothing terrible had happened; although Beriadan had taken the time to show them some of the sights along the way, much to Lindir's obvious delight. And Elrond was listening. For the first time he heard his minstrel. As a mind, as a heart, as another scholar ... and it was humbling how much he had missed in his self-absorption. The peredhel had built a house and raised a family. He had learned and grown and given back to others. But the one person who had been his rock, the one elf who had been there consistently when all others had fled, was the one he had overlooked for his steadfast nature. Elrond had missed every word of love and praise in Lindir's songs. He had known the truth all along, and somehow he had avoided it. But now ...  
  
The Silvan elves had also begun to warm up to the minstrel of Imladris, and they had called for a song as they rode. So Lindir was singing for them, his cheek rested contentedly on the half-elf's shoulder. He sang of the trees and the sky and the cleansing rain, and the mood of the party increased greatly. Even Thranduil's.  
  
The elf-king's shoulders had been strangely tense where he rode ahead of them, aloof and seemingly removed from the happiness of the rest of his courtiers. Elrond was glad that the minstrel's song had brought him a modicum of comfort, too. Part of the peredhel was angry, part was hurting, and yet another ... was grateful to the other lord. So he did his best to keep Thranduil and Lindir apart to avoid bloodshed. But for now ... like this, the party's interaction was peaceful.  
  
As long as no elf looked at the other overlong.  
  
And the path went on.  
  
~*~  
  
      Lindir had nearly sung himself hoarse as the day drew to a close, and the trees grew more closely together. The ground had become rockier, and the horses had to pick their way carefully among the roots. The trail was not impassible by horseback, but it was not suitable for fast riding, either.  
  
And just as the path had begun to disintegrate, the light mood of the company began to fade the closer they got to their destination.  
  
"My Lord," Lindir whispered after closing with one last and much quieter song. "There is a darkness. Is such a thing normal for this land?" he murmured.  
  
And that was when Elrond noticed it, too. There had been a sense of foreboding before, but now it was almost overwhelming. "No, my minstrel. This is not normal," he whispered, raising his hand suddenly, motioning the elves nearest him to give way to the side of the path.  
  
The horses were starting to jitter and stamp, and the sky began to grow brooding. It was not the passing of the day into twilight, nor even the shadow of cloud. No. It was malevolence.  
  
With Elrond's gesture and the sound of his company breaking rank, Thranduil wheeled his stallion around to face the direction they had come from; and as he did all color seemed to leave his face. "To arms!" he called suddenly, his voice echoing off the overgrowing branches and canopy.  
  
"My King?" Beriadan asked, obediently drawing his sword and facing down the path, trotting his horse ahead to put himself between the alleged danger and the party. He was alert, but confused. Whatever was approaching them seemed incorporeal.  
  
There came the sound of skittering ... and the soft hush of litter turning over under oddly shaped feet. Then there was a murmur of terror from the nearby trees. Several large and elusive creatures seemed to have passed the party by before turning back and beginning to clamber within the branches above them. In response the elves circled themselves, putting their horses tail to tail, weapons facing outward. There was dread on every single face, elf and beast alike, and neither Elrond nor his attendant wanted to ask what was about to befall them. In this case, ignorance was bliss, even for a few seconds longer.  
  
What finally spilled out onto the path took the peredhel's breath away; and he was barely conscious of freeing his sword from its scabbard at the same time Lindir drew his dagger. Eight red eyes met his, and eight long legs stretched out from the forest's edge. Then another set of eyes appeared. And another. Evil surrounded the party; and when the creatures moved, something low in the healer's stomach heaved and clenched. They were the most immense spiders he had ever borne witness to personally, and they had to be of Shelob's brood.  
  
"Never before in my forest," Thranduil muttered, his words clear to the adrenaline enhanced ear.  
  
"What I would not give for Glorfindel's sword, my minstrel," Elrond breathed.  
  
And that ... was the last moment of stillness before everything exploded into chaos.  
  
~*~  
  
      They rode flat out after being scattered, the first wave of arrows felling one spider; and as Lindir had considered more than once, he was grateful the Silvan were excellent marksmen. That meant that there were still at least two spiders left behind them; but what had perished was one monstrosity less. Elrond's steel had tasted first blood during the flanking attack that had disordered them; and the singer was trying not to smell it. It seemed that everything about their pursuers was vile. Even their blood.  
  
Thranduil had tried to rally them as they galloped, informing them that there was an entire host of warriors not far away and the safety of his halls across the river. It was a pleasant attempt to give hope where there was none ... but Lindir could not help but think that short distance might as well have been a thousand miles. The path was treacherous, and at a gallop was just as likely to kill them as the spiders. The attendant didn't know about his lord, whom he held very tightly to; but he would take his chances with the path. The goblins had frightened him, yes. But this ... he had never in thousands of years borne witness to something so repugnant.  
  
Their hissing voices ... the beasts were _talking_ and it made the minstrel shudder. They spoke about how the elves would taste and how they would devour them; and Lindir felt sick to his stomach at the patter of those sinister feet behind them. He could not tell if they were being toyed with, or if the spiders were genuinely new to hunting elves. He hoped it was the latter, because that gave them the smallest sliver of a chance ... and they rode on because they had no other choice.  
  
The company would make it to the caverns. Or perish.  
  
Lindir clung to Elrond as they flew down the narrow way, and he was debating that at least he wouldn't die alone ... when it grew strangely quiet again. At that, the minstrel dared to look back to see empty forest behind them. The view filled the situation with a temporary sensation of promise; but just as it seemed they might actually be losing their pursuers, he looked ahead and cursed. The path narrowed dangerously before them, forcing the party impossibly close together on the trail ... and suddenly the singer knew where the arachnids had gone.  
  
The company could not stop, they could not slow down ... and the spiders made their move.  
  
      The second attack came from the sides; but this time Beriadan was able to put himself between danger and his charges. Under any other circumstances his campaign would have gone rather well, but ... their opponents proved more nimble than anticipated. The warrior's attempt to cut the legs out from under the creature nearest him failed when it leaped above the swing of his sword, and landed on top of him and his steed.  
  
The elf-captain's stallion brayed in horror as the spider's considerable weight came down upon him and his rider; and Beriadan screamed as a fang pierced through his shoulder. Reflexively, Lindir's dagger came up even as the captain's blood splattered the side of his face; and without the slightest pause he opened the abomination's belly, spilling out its entrails.  
  
"Beriadan!" Lindir shouted in worry, drawing the group's attention to their captain's plight.  
  
The peredhel's sword followed suit to his minstrel's blade, and soon the spider had no head. In the end, this proved to be a poor move. The death throes of the enormous arachnid stumbled the warrior's horse; and before Beriadan could pull the massive mandible free of his shoulder, his mount caught a hoof on a tree root and went down.  
  
The elf captain was thrown free, but the sound of splintering bone when rider, carcass, and horse tumbled over each other proved to be less of a stroke of luck. Elrond thought quickly and pulled his stallion about, forcing the rest of the party to go around the fallen mount and rider; and as Lindir and his lord slid to a stop ... the minstrel was moving before he could think. Later he would worry that such a shortcoming was becoming a habit; but in that instant he would not leave Beriadan. The elf-captain had not abandoned him when he was in peril, and perhaps the Silvan was already dead ... but maybe he wasn't. And Lindir knew what it was like to lie in the dirt, hurting and afraid; so he vowed he would not let the other potentially perish in such a manner.  
  
Dismounting, he managed to land on his feet despite the ache in his leg; and he ran the last few steps it took him to reach the fallen Silvan. The Captain was completely still, but his horse was getting to its feet again and seemed unharmed. Taking their few seconds of confusion as the best of fortunes, Lindir knelt swiftly, checking for a pulse. And found it.  
  
It was then that the last spider rushed at them; but it was repelled by the other elves who had turned their flight and were circling their fallen captain, Thranduil at their lead. Lindir had once again made a stand, and they were doing their best to protect him and Beriadan. Arrows began to rain down, and the lone spider began to back away, trying to decide if it was worth it to face so many angry elves by itself.  
  
"We must fly!" Elrond's voice was sternly aimed at his minstrel.  
  
Thus galvanized, Lindir took advantage of the second lull in battle and knelt down the rest of the way. He was trembling, but he knew what he needed to do. With more strength than he though he held in his frame, he picked up the fallen warrior. Then he slung him over the front of his horse's saddle and bravely mounted after him. He had to hope the captain's mount was not too badly wounded or overburdened to keep up with the others, as this was the only thing he could think to do.  
  
"Let us go, retreat! Help is not far!" Thranduil called loudly. Both for the benefit of the party, and for the last spider which was twitching its mandibles in indecision.  
  
The elves turned as one, then. Elrond's hand went to Beriadan's bridle; and they were off again, racing down the path. Lindir was concentrating intensely, trying to stay in the saddle and not drop his precious cargo; but even as he did, he spared a look to his master beside him.  
  
The peredhel looked angry; but he also had the concentrated look of a strategist who approved of a risky move. Still, it did not fill the minstrel with much hope. It felt like all was lost, and Beriadan's blood was soaking Lindir's thighs when they made a bend in the path ... that was, until there came a shout from a sentry.  
  
One that was answered by Thranduil. And within the course of a dozen heartbeats the wood was bristling with agitated and well armed elves.  
  
The last remaining spider took one look at that insurmountable greeting; and fled back in the direction which it had come.  
  
~*~  
  
      In retrospect, Lindir didn't remember when they had slowed from a gallop to an easy walk. He was shaking violently, and his heart was still racing. It took time for one of the scouts keeping pace beside him to encourage him to sheathe his dagger. He had even very nearly forgotten about his wounded burden; that was, until Beriadan moaned and Elrond leaned over to check on him.  
  
Lindir supported the warrior as best he could with his arms and legs, and the peredhel quickly assessed the damage from horseback; making sounds of surprise that the other had lived at all. "My Lord?" Lindir asked, voice quavering.  
  
"Not now. I am far too upset with you. You could have been killed," Elrond muttered, glowering. "For the time being, focus on helping Beriadan. Later we will speak."  
  
      The words made the minstrel's stomach hit his knees, and by the time they had reached the caverns' stables; Lindir was nearly in tears. Thranduil's caves were a grand thing, but he did not recall their approach to them, the sun where it reached the river on either side of the company, nor the giant doors that swung closed behind them. All he knew was that he had to help Beriadan, and that Elrond was furious with him.  
  
Quickly, the duo from Imladris were escorted to the healer's hall within the caves; and already the half-elven was guiding the creation of anti-venom and working to repair the damage to Beriadan's body. The shaken minstrel supported his lord as best he could, watching him heal the wound at the elf-captain's shoulder and mend the broken bones in the brave warrior's arms and hands. It was a long process, and by the time it was done and Beriadan was fast asleep, Elrond was too.  
  
The peredhel had been given pure bee's honey to eat before he rested, as much as he could stand, and then was put immediately onto a cot beside his patient. Lindir had removed his outer robes, using them to cover his weary master before kneeling beside him on one of their packs. They had no proper room, he had no idea where Thranduil was, he had no idea if they were even welcome here ... and he felt dirty. Sick, dirty, and soaked with Beriadan's blood.  
  
The minstrel was unable to leave his lord's side, and was too stunned to know what to do with himself in such a strange city. So he hunkered down, closing his eyes, and tried to push back his fear so he could think clearly. Spiders. Where had such great spiders come from, and why would they be in the Greenwood of all places? He wished he could research in the libraries. That in itself would at least be somethi—  
  
—A warm hand was cupping his face, and before he could even blink his eyes into focus, a hot cloth was washing away the blood from his cheekbones.  
  
What he saw when he could focus again surprised him, or more aptly ... who.  
  
It was Thranduil. But it was not. A sweeter countenance and a kinder touch accompanied another swipe of the cloth.  
  
"I am Legolas, Prince of Greenwood. I do not believe we have met before, but my father asked that I attend you both. I see we have forgotten our manners in our haste," the prince said quietly. He looked around at the impressed and awkwardly concerned healers; then down to where Lindir sat ungainly against a pack, shivering in thin under-robes with his hand protectively clutching Elrond's. "Is he well?" The prince continued quietly, the question almost an afterthought.  
  
"He has healing sickness, but it will pass. He will need a hot meal when he wakes," the singer said, remembering his own pain all too well. "Why would _he_ send you? Surely you have servants ..."  
  
"I have my own reasons to ask to be here ... but more importantly, Beriadan is my good friend. You have saved his life. I wanted to see his well-being with my own eyes ... and to meet you both. It is rare we have visitors." Legolas rested a broad palm on the confused singer's shoulder, and the gesture was surprisingly grateful.  
  
Lindir stared up at the prince, still gawky and half frozen in terror; but the warm touch of Legolas' hand moved him from his stupor.  
  
"I am Lindir, High Minstrel of Imladris, attendant to Lord Elrond Half-elven. It is a pleasure to meet you, Master Legolas."  
  
The younger elf's only reply was to blot more blood off the minstrel's forehead, expression conflicted.  
  
It must have been true. Greenwood could not have received many visitors.   
  
~*~  
TBC  
~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: We have some spiddies at last ... and! Yes, I'm really very certain Elrond and Lindir will be getting their collective act together in the next chapter. So that is something to look forward to :D Also: Legolas. Because.
> 
> Standard Disclaimer: I'm really not into criticism. Some things mentioned here are head-canon and not perfectly true to Tolkien. I'm writing this story for my own entertainment. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't, well, no one is making you read it and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Beta Credit: All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
> Zeta Reader: All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond begins to fade to his grief. Who will heal the healer? A story of things lost, and found.

 

 **Chapter Fourteen:**  
  
      Legolas' brilliant blue eyes were studying Lindir, and they were blatantly curious. It was as if the minstrel was a puzzle that was missing pieces. Or perhaps one that had recently had them replaced. This one, his charge, he needed care. The least of which was clean clothing, a hot bath, and a meal. But the Silvan knew such a faithful attendant would not leave his master's side; and such a devoted healer would not leave his patient.  
  
So the young prince would not suggest such things.  
  
Not yet. Especially when the scholar before him looked so very frightened and out of place. Seeking to console, the young Silvan reached out with his free hand and lightly clasped the visitor's fingers. "A musician, I see ..." the blond elf said, eventually turning Lindir's hand palm-side up. Thoughtfully, he ran his thumb over fingertips hardened by a completely different sort of string. So it was true ... how long it had been since the caverns had heard song? He couldn't remember.  
  
      Lindir flinched. Taken aback by the intimacy of the gesture, he quickly pulled his hand away. He was uncertain of how to respond, and he wished to Elbereth his lord was awake to show him the right way. Silvan elves, and Thranduil's people in particular, were more passionate and instinctive than the other elven peoples of Middle-earth. Sometimes to the point of being accused of lack of civility. Lindir had always been more reserved, even for a Ñoldo, and so this new experience left him in a quandary.  
  
In the past the musician had been able to retreat into the stacks whenever anyone had tried to do more than exchange a few pleasantries. Thankfully, time in Elrond's court had given him some confidence even if it felt false. Besides, he had agreed to be an ambassador and interaction was unavoidable, so he attempted to choose his words wisely. "I am a scholar and a minstrel, yes," he replied belatedly, brown eyes nervous as he huddled protectively closer to Elrond.  
  
He said nothing about his own healing gift. He didn't dare.  
  
"I have made you uncomfortable; forgive me. I know your kin do not touch as often as mine do. I swear that I mean you no harm. I have no ulterior motive," Legolas said, setting the bloody cloth in his other hand aside in frustration. "If anything, I have heard of your exploits, and I am curious. I do not often get word of the outside world. And it seems, perhaps, that you could use some comfort. I understand that need very well."  
  
Lindir felt some of his defenses lower. He had expected deceit from the other; especially as the son of Thranduil. What he found was shocking honesty; and he didn't know how to react to that, either.  
  
There was regret on that youthful face, and the singer finally comprehended why his own heart felt so heavy and frightened. There was an air of darkness and oppression to the caverns, and it was not fostered by evil. Of course there was the Necromancer—menacing and nearly on Thranduil's doorstep—but his people, they were hidden away and walled in. He had a feeling that not all agreed with such a lifestyle. Especially the elf-king's son. The sense of suffocation was all around them, and it was nearly tangible.  
  
Lindir knew enough about Thranduil to know the King of Greenwood feared loss above all else, and he had survived much of it. But unlike Imladris' master, who had grieved yet not chosen to cut himself off from his people out of fear. The king of the Silvan had. Even his own son. Especially his son.  
  
"How long, young prince, have you looked across the deep waters of the Anduin and to the edges of Lothlórien and pined to feel the sun on your face. For how long have you desired the knot of dread in your stomach to ease?" Lindir asked, the boldness and defensiveness of his question even surprising himself.  
  
"Was it that obvious?" Legolas answered sorrowfully, his brow quirked at the unexpected fearlessness. But then it furrowed when he realized Lindir had understood instantly. The story ... the song of Thranduil and the Silvan was woven into the foundations of the caverns, into their home and its silence. Such was the sorrow of the Firstborn. Such was the perception of a bard.  
  
"How long have your people been without a minstrel?" Lindir asked apologetically, realizing his reply must have sounded too direct, harsh, and defensive.  
  
Legolas' frown deepened. This time in disapproval instead of surprise.  
  
"My father thinks song has no place here any longer. We must be silent and secret." He turned away, then. Looking to Beriadan where he lay crumpled on his cot, unconscious from his ordeals. "I think we have no place for life, my friend. We are not living. We are suffocating. Stagnating. Adar would not say these things to you, as a guest you would see us at our best. But I fear this cannot be hidden, so I will admit it as I should. As I must."  
  
At that the elf-prince took two worried steps toward the fallen Silvan, and knelt; pulling one of the finely woven blankets closer to the sleeping captain. As he did, the young sire's expression became more tender. If any anger remained it was for the price his people were paying from his father's overbearing rule. It was also aching with something that made Lindir take in a sharp breath. Love. Beriadan was more than a friend. The revelation startled the minstrel, and made the big picture all the clearer.  
  
"You were avoiding looking upon him, for you feared he had given up," the singer stated. His gaze went from the prince and wounded captain, back to his master. He knew what that was like all too well, and his heart went out to the younger elf.  
  
He knew what to do now. With one last empathetic stroke of his master's brow; he stood to make his way to Legolas. He did not want to leave the peredhel's side, but his sympathy managed to move him from his rut of fear and confusion. "Hold him. I will say nothing, he deserves to be back in your arms. He did not give up. He was protecting us all with honor, not trying to end his life," Lindir murmured.  
  
There was relief written on the elf-prince's face at those words; and when now vulnerable blue eyes met the minstrel's, there was no way Lindir could be unmoved by the fear there.  
  
Legolas might as well have been Elrohir or Elladan, even if he was slightly older than they; and as he would for them, the musician wanted nothing more than to ease the prince's distress. The Silvan was at the age when a young sire tested his bounds, learned his own strengths and weaknesses, and became aware of them in others. To nearly lose Beriadan after they had been separated from each other ... the singer was now certain that the captain had been selected to accompany Thranduil because of his love for his prince. The story was written in Legolas' posture. They had been divided intentionally by Woodland Realm's king, who was trying to thwart their relationship.  
  
'His own reasons for being here' indeed.  
  
"How do I ..." Legolas began to unconsciously ask Lindir, trying to decide how best to touch his lover. He was not as afraid as he was uncertain; and bow strengthened, careful hands kept searching for a place to stroke that wasn't bruised. "Can you show me?" he finally asked, peering up imploringly at the minstrel.  
  
A few of the other healers moved closer at Legolas' request, attempting to assist; but Lindir shooed them away commandingly. If they had stood by and watched all this happen without saying a word, then they did not care enough to be allowed to touch his lord's patient. Elrond's. Not theirs.  
  
"Do not be afraid, he will not break. My master has made him whole again. He is merely exhausted and contused," the singer murmured in reply. This was a problem the minstrel could fix. A type of healing he could perform that his lord could not; and a sense of true purpose finally overtook him. He was not worrying about Elrond's anger with him or their precarious situation within the caverns as diplomats. He was not focused on his own nightmares and aching leg. There was finally something he could do, a problem he could put right!  
  
Despite sounds of upset from the herbalists around him, the singer knelt beside the lovers. From there he grasped and carefully lifted the unconscious elf-captain. At this, Legolas glanced over to him, confused. To clarify, the minstrel tilted his head, motioning the heir to rest on the cot as well. He was given a dubious glance in reply, but that expression disappeared the moment Lindir laid Beriadan in his prince's arms and they both were settled.  
  
Even in his trance, the captain's response was beautiful. He murmured, instantly recognizing the heartbeat and warmth of his lover. And Legolas ... his arms curved around that familiar and beloved form with a quiet sound of relief. The two were reunited again, and the minstrel knew without checking that their hearts beat as one.  
  
To see such a thing, it made Lindir's stomach ache in both envy, and gladness. This was what Thranduil was trying to prevent. This was what the singer could never have; but to give it to another, even for a moment, that was at least something.  
  
Putting his stray emotions aside, instinct for duty once again took over. That, and the satisfaction of doing the right thing ... while getting a taste of vengeance as well. Reaching for another thin blanket at the foot of the cot, Lindir then used it to cover the weary couple where they nestled together. He would have left them to each other, but he knew there was still one thing that needed to be done. Desperately. Perhaps it was rebellious, and it was most definitely unwise ... but the song within him was stirring.  
  
He knew hurt when he felt it, when he saw it. And he could not leave it. Not like this, even if he didn't like Thranduil. _Especially_ because he didn't like Thranduil. Moving from where he knelt on the floor, he perched exhaustedly on the edge of Beriadan's cot. From there he began to stroke the captain's hair ... and sing.  
  
Legolas looked sharply to him in surprise as the melody grew, but only at first. Everything in the caverns had been without joy so long that even walls didn't seem to know what to do with the sound of it. Once the music began to flow, though, and once the healing began; the elf prince's eyelids grew heavy in relief. For it was not just Beriadan Lindir was soothing, but a certain young sire ... and the entire hall.  
  
This was what his lord would have wanted him to do; and the singer forgot himself and his fears in the intensity of the moment. He had expected to be told to stop, perhaps even threatened as he began to work his magic, reaching out to heal two weary and disheartened spirits. Instead he found himself with an enraptured audience. The elves of the healing hall drew near to him, starving for something far more important than food or water ... starving for hope.  
  
There was wonder on their faces, not fear and despair; and when one of them nudged Elrond's cot closer so that Lindir could be nearer to him while he worked; the minstrel knew he had finally been accepted and understood—Perhaps for the first time in his life, and by those whom he had never met before—and his earlier disdain for the healers of the hall began to fade. He was becoming painfully aware of how he had misjudged a great many things over thousands of years; and in the last few days in particular.  
  
~*~  
  
      The singer had been alone with his thoughts for some time, dozing on and off. The other healers had either fallen asleep beside their patients, or gone off to their own quarters to rest. Beriadan and Legolas had also retreated elsewhere to be alone together. Lindir had been so glad when the elf-captain had awoken. The sturdy Silvan had still been exhausted, but had managed to limp off beside his prince; and that meant that come afternoon and more rest, he would be completely well once more. The peredhel had done a remarkable job of putting the stricken elf back together again.  
  
The two lovers had been just as grateful to Lindir as they had Elrond; but the minstrel had brushed off their praises—and their worry that their visitors had done more to help than the Silvan had offered in hospitality— then assured them not to concern themselves, knowing that in time all things would be right. Of course, the singer was hungry from his healing work, his head ached, and he was still cold and poorly dressed in blood soaked clothing; but he could remedy that soon. His master would know what to do.  
  
Patiently, he waited.  
  
~*~  
  
      It was sometime around dawn that Elrond finally stirred from his slumber.  
  
"Good morning, my Lord," Lindir said, voice low with exhaustion and pain. "Did you rest well?"  
  
Gray eyes met brown with trepidation, and slowly the healer levered himself upright. He looked from Lindir's bloody robe around his shoulders, to his minstrel, shivering in his undergarments. They both were dirty and tired ... and from the sound of their growling stomachs, hungry.  
  
"Beriadan?" Elrond asked when his eyes finally focused; anxiously diverging from pleasantries when he realized the captain was no longer present.  
  
"He was well enough to return to his lover's arms and rest for the night. That is a medicine neither of us can match," the singer offered the peredhel a smile, glad to see his master relax slightly. Elrond feared deeply to lose a patient. He always had; and Lindir might have continued and said more to reassure him, but they were interrupted when a night guard strode in from the hallway.  
  
"My lords," she paused before them sharply, voice low with respect for the hour.  
  
Elrond looked like he was about to answer her, but found her focus to be firmly on his attendant. He quirked an eyebrow at that. She was staring at Lindir even as the singer nervously averted his eyes. The peredhel's gaze eventually followed hers, and the musician shrugged shyly at the addition of his master's scrutiny. Obviously, word spread as quickly in Thranduil's halls as it did in Imladris; and not for the first time in several days, the half-elven suspected he had missed a few things while he had slumbered. "M'lady?" he finally replied; politely and firmly drawing her attention back to himself.  
  
Catching herself and shaking her head, the guard finally delivered her message, "A thousand pardons, Lord Elrond. If you would please follow me, there is a hot meal awaiting you and a private room with a bath ready. We have also lent you both clothing to wear while you are here. Once you have rested, our King wishes an audience with you." Her self-censorship denoted her frustration with how long her _king_ had delayed in the comfort of his guests.  
  
"It is no trouble, the hour is late for you as well; and we greatly welcome your kindness," Elrond replied, drawing a low bow of respect from her.  
  
It was then that the singer was reminded that the peredhel was not blind to the goings on in the hall. If anything he had picked up on them faster than Lindir had. Admittedly, it was odd to see this level of disrepair among elves; so the minstrel continued to watch their guide just as curiously as she had him. Her every motion was a story in itself, and while she was stiff with formality, the musician had a feeling she did not want to be. Every action had a secondary meaning, and was spelling out a cry for help that could not leave her silenced lips. The worst thing was that in this instance, there was nothing he could do.  
  
He might have been frustrated with the situation, but Lindir _was_ glad at the option of a meal and clean clothing. This lead to the realization the three elves could not sit all night and exchange pleasantries if such things were to happen. With that in mind, the scholar had just risen obediently and reached for Elrond's packs ... when the guard shook her head at him, stopping him. Picking the bags up herself, she then motioned them to follow.  
  
She did not have to do such a thing, and that in itself spoke volumes.  
  
Surprised, but appreciative, the singer nodded back to her in thanks as he helped his master stand. Those in the healing hall were still drowsy, and would not notice their departure; so the minstrel did not troubled them. His song had been excellent for their morale as well, and perhaps it was the first good sleep they had experienced in some time. No. He knew it to be so. And he would not wake them at this hour to say his farewells.  
  
~*~  
  
      The guests from Imladris had feasted in silence. And it had been a feast. Lindir had eaten as much as he could, partaking in enough of the sweets offered that Elrond had no doubt what the minstrel had been seeing to while he had recovered his energy. Neither had spoken; Lindir knowing that Elrond was irritable and upset with him, and Elrond out of exhaustion and concern. The peredhel was contemplating the spiders and what that meant for Greenwood, unlike his attendant who had given up on that train of thought earlier. The singer only had enough energy to focus on what he could actually mend, though how to right his wrongs in Elrond's eyes remained to be seen.  
  
When they had finished eating and Lindir's headache had eased, they were guided toward their room. The guard who had retrieved them earlier was leading the way once more, and this time she looked relieved. Maybe she had been worried that the food would not be enough to make up for the poor hospitality her guests had experience. It was hard to say, but one thing was for certain. Thranduil ruled like an iron fist in a velvet glove, and the minstrel wondered if she would, or already had, taken blame for things that were not her fault. He tried not to ruminate long on that, either. There was little he could do except stay near his master and bring him as much comfort as he could. He lacked faith in himself, and that he could do anything for Thranduil's halls. Not the way the elf-king had for Elrond.  
  
~*~  
  
      As they made their way, the minstrel walked painfully close to the peredhel. The singer was once again wearing his borrowed outer robes, though they were loose around his frame. Elrond had insisted that he had looked chilled and returned them; and while Lindir felt guilt that his lord might now be uncomfortable, he took reassurance from the scent of him on the fabric. It overrode the acrid smell of sweat and blood that still clung to them both, and made Lindir's disquiet slightly less powerful.  
  
Thranduil's halls were more unwelcoming and more intimidating than Ost Fuin. Perhaps it was the dread of enclosure, perhaps it was the knowledge that his lord was angry with him, or maybe it was weariness from healing; but Lindir could not fight the sensation of claustrophobia ... and by the time the door to their quarters closed behind him and the guard curtly dismissed herself, his nerve had abandoned him again. Cautiously, he tried to break the silence that followed as Elrond looked around their room; locating the meager remains of their belongings and the clothing that had been laid out for them.  
  
"If you would care to rest for a moment, my Lord, I will— "  
  
"— No. You will not. If we do anything, it will be together," the healer interrupted sternly; his full attention returning to his worry, and his minstrel, even if he was not looking directly at him yet.  
  
Lindir cringed where he stood. He did not know how to respond to such a statement. Always, Elrond's care had been his duty ... was he being dismissed? Regularly, his mind went to such things, and the worst possible outcome. He could not help it. "My Lord, I ... " the singer began to stammer from exhaustion and repressed fear, finding no excuse that fit his tongue.  
  
" ... Do not look at me like that," Elrond sighed, forcing his speech to gentle, back still to the musician. From tone of voice alone he knew the expression of panic that would be written on Lindir's countenance. At times, the minstrel's devotion and fear of loss rivaled his own, and certainly made communication difficult. He searched the ceiling for patience, and then tried to reiterate. "I said that we will do things together." This time he made certain his timbre was warm and welcoming; trying to explain the sudden change within himself without further provoking the singer's fear of abandonment.  
  
When silence pervaded in reply, he knew he had failed before he had begun.  
  
Still, the conversation had to be held, and he braced himself as best he could before he turned to face the other elf. They were standing so close that they could have touched chests. ... and already, Lindir was trying to hide away from that, gaze averted. The worst part was the way that those warm, brown eyes, already brimming with tears, were cast upon the floor obediently. The peredhel felt his stomach plummet to his knees with guilt. The musician had only heard an order to not look upon his lord, instead of hearing a reassurance.  
  
It was easy to be insulted as a leader, thinking the other Ñoldo believed him an overbearing monster; when in reality his now faithful attendant had not always served a kind master. Sweet, beautiful, and surprisingly strong, the minstrel had endured more than one harsh lifetime. But such things would not do. Not anymore.  
  
When the peredhel finally managed to capture Lindir's jaw in both hands, he guided it up until their eyes eventually met. As such they were but a whisper away from touching lips. "I did not say 'do not look at me,' I said, 'do not look at me _like that_ '; and I say that we will do things together for good reason ..." he bit back a sigh of exhaustion. "You are not less than me. You are my equal. You are my ... " he trailed off, his voice wavering, and when Lindir tried to move away he turned his head back, holding him steady. " ... I warned you that we would have this discussion, and so we are. Do not look away in shame. I am not angry with you, I am frightened. Hear me. My worry is that you are trying to throw your life away, that you underestimate yourself. For what reason? Why? Lindir, you are so gifted, but you cannot share your gift with others if you are dead. Your bravery is estimable but do you not know what you mean to me? To others? To our people ... and even Thranduil's? Do you not know where I would be without you? You are not my servant. You are my right arm!"  
  
When those uncertain eyes finally met his, the peredhel's hands fell to the top of his attendant's shoulders, giving him a light shake. "Today I thought I would lose you forever ... and earlier at the ford, it was all I could do to stay calm. I cannot be without you. You cannot leave me. I know it is the most selfish thing I could demand as Elrond Half-elven; and worse to ask as your lord ... but you have always been here. I need you. Please stay."  
  
      Lindir was trembling with the realization of what was about to happen. He knew it, he could feel it, and the part of him that had grown more confident told him now was the time. And to hear such words ... did Elrond remember? Did he know how long his attendant had really been in his life? There was everything to lose if the singer did not take this chance, and they were so close. He wanted this. He needed it. And if his master needed him, too ...  
  
Slowly his hands came up and moved to cover the peredhel's where they rested at his shoulders; and when his tear damp gaze met desperate gray, he finally spoke. An odd calm had come over him, even though he could not stop shaking.  
  
"I could never leave you. I know that now. I tried, but I could not allow myself to die. I love you. I love you, not just as my lord, but as my heart. I have loved you for so long that the thought of being without you takes my breath away. Even if you were with another, I would stay by your side because you would be happy; and it is better to be your trusted attendant and able to help you, than to be separated from you. My Lord. Elrond. I see you for who you are, as a sire, as a lord ... your faults and your strengths ... I love you. Do you understand? I. Love. You. I would sooner die than make you unhappy ... that is why I could not meet your gaze as you asked. I thought I disappointed you. I thought I could no longer help you ... I understand, now." He was gasping with the truth of his words, with how much he meant them; and Elrond was regarding him with surprise, his expression a mixture of fear and longing. "I will not hurt you, I will not ask more of you than I do now. Please ... let me love you? I want little else. I do not want to replace the lady. I ... "  
  
And then Elrond's arms went around him, and suddenly he was being kissed. Fiercely. At first he startled, feeling his back thump against the closed door of their room. He had been expecting rejection, but now ... that warm mouth was against his, and it was right. It was so right, and he was shuddering with the desperation of it; tears forgotten. He could not help it when his hands came up to tangle into that silky dark hair. His master finally saw him. Saw him and ... wanted him, too.  
  
Their tongues met, sleek and warm, and while the musician was clumsy with inexperience, the peredhel guided him tenderly enough; and when his lord pulled away, breathing quickened ... Lindir nearly collapsed. His knees were shaking and he felt like he was floating, unsure if he could feel any part of his body except where his lord's lips had touched.  
  
      Sensing Lindir swaying, Elrond moved to hold him more tightly. Instinctively he guided the musician to his shoulder, bracing them together as they slumped against the door. He couldn't believe what he had done, and yet ... he couldn't believe he hadn't done it sooner. Still, done it he had, and now he needed to cradle a very flustered minstrel.  
  
It was easy to forget that for all his years, the brunet elf in his arms was innocent. Talk amidst the eves of Imladris had made that very plain. Then again, part of Elrond felt like he had never loved before this, either. So in that they were both even.  
  
The horrible tension in the air had evaporated; and after a few long minutes of comfortable silence between them, the peredhel finally returned the words of devotion, " ... I love you, my minstrel, and I think I always have. I am so sorry to have put you thought so much, just to end up here. I was blind to everything for so long, but I do see the truth now; and I am not letting go."  
  
At that, Elrond helped them to stand away from the door while Lindir regained his bearings. Still, the healer doubted their collective ability to walk very far, or well. Perhaps because the singer was looking up at him like he was the only star in a very dark sky. There were many things he wanted to do in that instant; though all of them were much too soon. He certainly didn't want to push such a tender and loving heart for more than it could give; So maybe, for the time being they could ... "Come, join me in the bath. I would much enjoy your company," the half-elf invited. Of course, he wasn't moving yet, and neither was his minstrel.  
  
That was when Lindir reached up to claim another kiss, this one slower and much more needy.  
  
And Elrond thanked Elbereth. Oh how he thanked her. Finally.  
  
Finally.  
  
~*~  
  
      Elrond sighed as he settled more comfortably to the bed beside his attendant, who had been sponging up every single touch bestowed upon him. The bath they had just shared had been ... sadly rudimentary, as both had feared falling asleep and drowning; and even now he knew Lindir to be too weary to offer anything more than that. (Though the peredhel found himself longing for whatever intimacy the other was comfortable with.) He had not realized just how achingly alone he had been, even when sleeping in Thranduil's arms. Now he did; and for the first time in years, the thought of sleep did not feel so empty or pointless. Slumber did not scare him, nor did the visions he might have.  
  
There was a new, tremulous sense of security in his life that had never existed before. Not even with Celebrían. He shook his head at the intrusive memories, pushing away the darkness. Lindir was steady. The past could not offer him anything so good.  
  
"My Lord, what is it?" the minstrel asked, his hands pausing in the braiding of his master's hair.  
  
"Just Elrond, I would be honored if you called me by my given name," the peredhel reminded patiently.  
  
"Elrond," the name was still unpracticed, sounding rough from a voice that continued to be unused to lack of title. "What troubles you?"  
  
"Nothing at all, nothing that cannot be discussed after some real sleep," Elrond replied. Thankfully, their ordeal was nearly over, at least for a few hours before the afternoon meal. He vowed then, and only then, would he worry about what had passed him by as he had recovered from his healing efforts. Would he speak of his past losses? No. Not now. Perhaps never again. Did he want to know what had become of his patient and his mysterious love? Oh yes. He very much did.  
  
Trying to avoid his tendency to over-think, Elrond took a moment to tug one of Lindir's robe panels back into place. The clothing was borrowed and not tailored to either of their builds .... but they were dressed and clean at last; and that was a good start. The other lovely thing about their dreadfully early morning was the depth and softness of the mattress they rested upon. Their Silvan hosts had given them a comfortable place to retreat, if little else. Though ... there had only been one bed to share. Thranduil had no doubt assumed correctly, if that was the case. The peredhel filed that gem away to be irritated about later. Besides, his bedmate was demanding most of his attention, and he didn't mind that in the least.  
  
Lindir had insisted on braiding their hair for sleep, and his nimble fingertips had just cleverly bound Elrond's tie when the healer was reminded of what that simple gesture meant. Drawing a bath, bringing a meal, neatening robes or braiding hair. It had been, and was, unerring dedication. Then again the half-elf had finally realized how much he looked forward to, and treasured, the attention and touches. Each song had been a devoted love sonnet ... and he had carelessly overlooked that. Now he was anticipating each small gesture in a way he had not in centuries.  
  
He was in love with Lindir. His heart leaped rebelliously at the mere thought. Perhaps it had been awkward at first, the admissions between them, the way they had danced around one another ... but now? He felt alive, and he studiously chose not to think back to the day he had healed the other elf, perceived both of their hidden feelings for one another, and then ... run from the room. Because this was nothing to flee from.  
  
He had expected that offering his heart to his minstrel would have felt strange, dishonest, or even disloyal to Celebrían. He had felt that way with Thranduil. But not with Lindir, and he knew that observation to be important. He was learning about life, about love, and his minstrel, appreciating him in new ways every day. The last few nights that they had slept side by side in their travels ... he had not woken next to him and been shocked to find him near. It was right, it was perfect; and the fact that he owed the King of Greenwood for it made him grit his teeth. But he would own such a debt. It was worth it.  
  
"You are thinking too much, my Lord. Come to bed," Lindir's warm and sweet voice interrupted as he set the comb in his hand aside.  
  
The minstrel was attempting to remind his master that now was the time to gather themselves, to heal and recuperate ... and he was right to do so. The peredhel knew there would certainly be more troubles to face with the dawn; but his mind was still rebelliously churning. That was, until the object of his cogitation had enough of his stalling and force him to lay down. Elrond had unintentionally resisted at first; but then a steely grip settled at the front of his robes and he acquiesced without further argument. Besides, when Lindir insisted on something being done, he always continued to do so until he had his way; and as Elrond sagged to the mattress in defeat, his decision to cooperate proved doubly wise. As he relented, his body was all too glad to remind him of just how enervated it was; and when honey-brown eyes sought permission to move closer, the elf-lord was already desperately reaching for his beloved. As he cradled the singer to his chest and buried them comfortably into the pillows, he could not help a sigh of relief. Lindir was right. This was a good idea. All of it.  
  
"Who taught you to lead by example?" Elrond murmured ruefully; grateful for the distraction of a loving heart beating next to his.  
  
"You did," Lindir replied guilelessly. "So, shall I sing for you?" he continued mischievously, eyelids heavy but heart so very willing. "I have been penning a new song, and I thought you might like to hear it."  
  
Elrond made a quiet sound of encouragement to that, then nodded succinctly. "I always love to hear your work, you are the most gifted of poets," he said certainly, knowing a song would lighten his heart further and perhaps help them both dream sweetly.  
  
... but when that song never began and a long silence followed after, he finally glanced down to try and source why. At first he thought the minstrel had fallen asleep mid-sentence; which would not have been surprising from an overwrought healer. But the front of the peredhel's robes were damp with teardrops.  
  
Oh.  
  
Startled, and now worried at the change in mood, Elrond moved to hold Lindir more tightly. He could not begrudge this, especially when he was certain most of those tears were his fault. He knew the strain had been terrible for everyone around him, but that was before thinking back to how much the singer had grown in the last month alone. That much change for an elf was staggering.  
  
"Forgive me for overlooking your devotion for so very long. I am sorry beyond measure," Elrond whispered thickly, feeling the pain as if it was his own. " ... and know that I love you whether your heart feels like singing or not." The peredhel knew it could not have been easy for Lindir, having to smile every time he wanted to weep.  
  
The minstrel could only nod in reply to that, clutching tighter to his lord's robes; but the tears did not last long against warmth, exhaustion, and a full belly. Soon Lindir was fast asleep, curled trustingly against his master. And Elrond had never been more overjoyed, or overwhelmed at once. Except, perhaps, for the first time he held his sons. There was meaning to his life again. There was joy and sorrow. There was intense frustration, uncertainty, and change, too ... but he felt more like _Elrond_ than he had in a century.  
  
And as the silence lapsed, he found himself counting Lindir's heartbeats and breaths, not so sure of what to do with anything that he now held in his grasp.  
  
"O Elbereth," he surprised himself to find the prayer, the whisper leaving his lips without his permission as he watched over Lindir's repose. "Please do not take this from me, too. I have given my all for our people. I have not spared the compassion of spirit or the strength of arm that you bestowed graciously upon me. And this is all that I ask for myself in return: Protect my family, and deliver me the wisdom to keep what remains, new and old. I am undeserving, but I am grateful."  
  
It was one of the few times he felt there was enough hope to pray since the night of Celebrían's capture.  
  
And when he finally succumbed, joining Lindir in slumber, his posture was protective even as he dreamed. He did not know if he trusted in the white shores anymore, or if he even believed in the Valar; but if they would not help him, then he would have to find the strength again on his own.  
  
He could not always rely on Glorfindel and Erestor.  
  
~*~  
TBC  
~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter is huge and had to be broken into two parts. Sorry it took me so long, but I had some life things come up. I also REALLY want this to be a good chappie, as some super important things are happening right now. Prawn in next half, not this one. Any mistakes are mine and will be ironed out tomorrow morning. Sorry you had to wait so long, and I hope you enjoy <3 Also. Legolas. 
> 
> I would also like to add that I'm really not into criticism. Some things mentioned here are head-canon and not perfectly true to Tolkien. I'm writing this story for my own entertainment. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't, well, no one is making you read it and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Beta Credit: All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
> Zeta Reader: All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond begins to fade to his grief. Who will heal the healer? A story of things lost, and found.

 

** Chapter Fifteen:  
  
**     Lindir woke in the late afternoon, his heart racing and his borrowed robes damp with sweat. Elrond slept peacefully beside him; more content than he had seen him in months. At that, the hint of a conflicted smile turned up the corner of the minstrel's mouth; and when the peredhel stirred at the absence of the singer's weight against him, the brunet elf pressed a pillow into his grasp in his stead. As the healer fell back into deep sleep again, his attendant rose from his side. The minstrel was still trembling from his dreams, and he did not want to wake his bedmate with his restlessness. After a nightmare like that, there was no way that he could possibly relax, let alone slumber; even with his beloved lord's arms around him. Especially  _ because  _ of them.

Thinking back on the night before, Lindir could not help but wonder. Was this pity? Sympathy? Was his master still seeing his wife when they touched? Of course, the musician knew better. But the insecurity nagged at him. Was he just a replacement? Some would argue 'yes', and apparently, so would the musician's conscience. Elrond still wore his wedding band, after all.

The singer had been debating if he should go for a walk, when he noticed that the door to their room was open. And for an instant he spied motion from the hall. Someone was watching them! Temper flaring, the minstrel stormed to the door. Throwing it open to reveal … nothing. Just an empty hall with its carved stone trees. There came an echo of far off chatter, of feasting and what he suspected might be someone singing, forbidden though it might be. And then he frowned. Only one person was arrogant enough to think they could spy on Lindir and his lord. Someone who was not present in the dining halls, as there were sweet voices raised against the emptiness … and in direct defiance of _his_ decree.

It could only have been Thranduil.

Gathering himself, the singer straightened out his hair and robes, and with a last look behind to his lord, he let himself out of the room. Closing the door, he heard the latch click and lock, and felt confident that Elrond would be protected until he awoke. Locking himself out was not the best move he could make, but it guaranteed that no one would enter their room and catch Elrond unaware as he rested. At least not by way of the door.

Tilting his head, Lindir caught a familiar scent wafting through the darkness. It was from the hair oil that Thranduil normally used; and the minstrel recognized that he was being baited. But that was just fine with him. He was certain the two of them had … things to discuss. Briefly he cursed himself for traveling an unfamiliar way without his borrowed dagger. But weapons were more or less forbidden here; and he knew that he would not be able to carry one without being challenged by guards, let alone anyone in a position of power looking for an excuse to do something underhanded. He took the risk that his host had planned it thus. There was nothing else he could do.  
  
And despite that fact that they were within the Greenwood as ambassadors of peace, Lindir could not say his intent was peaceful, unarmed or not; and Elrond would know that and be unhappy either way. But there was jealousy afoot that had to be addressed. The musician knew it was not like the elf-king to give up so easily, or selflessly. Not when he could have insinuated himself into a better position for power. No, something was amiss and had to be tended, and he was in just the mood to deal with it.

    Several stretches of hallway later; Lindir found himself in a far chamber, deep within the cavern’s twisting maze. Pausing, he found the scent of orchids and green, growing things nearly overwhelming. Wherever he was, he had met no guards on the way; and each step he took made him more suspicious than the last. He was far to the east of the main halls, and the sleeping quarters that he and Elrond shared; just far enough that no one would hear him if he cried out. It was all very meticulously planned … and somehow he did not find that surprising.

What did astonish him, was the unexpectedly serene setting that he met his opponent in.

Standing before a gazing pool; surrounded by twisting columns and relief sculptures of elk, deer, and butterflies … he found Thranduil, lost among the vines. The other had his back to him, but their gazes met through the taller elf's reflection in the water. The minstrel did not flinch. Orchids tumbled from every available place for them to grow, and somehow, as if knowing they framed him auspiciously, the elf-king was standing just-so amidst them.

“It is not polite to lurk in doorways, but I thought I might return the favor,” the singer said. Speaking first and taking the luxury of control away from the pompous Silvan before him.

Thranduil blinked slowly, and then he tilted his head; an unapologetic smirk at the corner of his mouth. He was luxuriously dressed in his customary robes, and they swirled around his form as he turned to face the shorter Ñoldo.

“Strong words from a mere _*Linda …_ Tell me, tell me why he should so desire you over me.” Two strides brought the Sinda so close they could have kissed, but Lindir stood tall, refusing to step back. Even when the pale-haired elf pressed their faces centimeters apart.

“I may be a mere Linda, _**mellonen_ , but the power of my song is in truth and honesty. Do not fall into the same trap as Thingol, it does not flatter you.” He knew the words were like signing his own death warrant, but he could not avoid them. He had some pride, even if it was only in his service to his lord.

Thranduil did not back away, and they stood that way for some time, cheek to cheek, the words passing between them only the ghosts of whispers.

“Flattering? No, do not worry so for your pride. I see you were not even worth claiming. I tried to lead him to you, but you cannot blame me for your own self-imposed naïveties,” Thranduil hissed. His own temper suddenly as high as the minstrel's.

The words stung, but Lindir would not let the king see how much. It was his body, and his choice in the time and place that he decided to share himself, or not, with a lover. “So is that what you led me here for? To gloat over how many you have had? I can offer him something you cannot … and that is why you are jealous,” Lindir spat, surprised when Thranduil stepped back like he had been slapped. All the spite seemed to drain from the Silvan at those words; leaving him looking shockingly defeated.

Lindir was not so certain he had won any ground at all, and so he was careful to avoid complacency. Careful to avoid thinking he was out of harm’s way. He still did not know why he was here, and he trusted nothing. The other elf was a master of illusion, and everything he did had ulterior motive.

“You are right about more than you know,” Thranduil admitted, standing utterly still in only the way very old elves could. “Do you know why I saved you? Do you know why I came back for you at the ford?” he asked softly, piercing blue eyes hooded under his furrowed brow. “No doubt you have questioned my actions ...”

Lindir shook his head in reply to both statements, yet he was not being fully truthful. For he did wondered why the Sinda had returned for him.

“Because as much as I want to be with him, you are what he needs. And I am not Thingol. While my pride will be my downfall one day, it could not suffer the thought that he will someday come to love another. And he would have. It would be you. You have always been meant to grace his arm and guide his steps. You. And do not think that I do not hate you for what you are keeping me from.”

“So it was always about power, I see,” Lindir said, not flinching. Not backing down nor judging, not anymore. This had moved beyond petty personal attacks. He was beginning to see a bigger picture.

“I was not handed a means to protect my people. Not like your lord was. I will take whatever I can get to hold the darkness at bay. Do you think I have forgotten the horrors of war? Do you think I have forgotten what the necromancer can do? Do you think my subjects enjoy our forced retreat here? We are numbered, Minstrel, surely you can see that. We are few but we stand guard between tremulous liberty and the oncoming darkness. My people pay for your freedom, and the autonomy that Imladris and Lothlórien revel in. It is not just the power of the Lady of the Wood that protects the Golden Forest.” He frowned, and Lindir winced.

That much could not be denied.

“So I am a bargaining chip, and you want to be certain I understand my place,” Lindir said, a hand on his hip. “You feel you have nothing to offer a relationship, but what you can give or take; missing completely that such 'worth' means nothing to my lord. If you were lost, he would grieve you. You, as an elf.” The minstrel shook his head. “Your view of the world, of Lord Elrond, is distorted. It is not about the pleasure that you could give him, or what he could take from you; nor what he could give back. Your people oft' seem to feel that way; but mine do not all work in such a manner. My lord gives generously, and asks nothing in return. You could have had him, and he would have been yours. But you give him away … you yielded to a _lowly_ Linda. Why?”

He watched an expression of brief vulnerability cross that proud face, and suddenly understood. This went deeper than the necromancer, or the lack of assistance that Thranduil received. Of course, the Sinda had been too proud to ask for help; and had often driven off those who sought to ally with him or aid him. Because he wanted to keep his Silvans pure, he wanted them to owe no one, and to never have to fraternize with those who thought them of less noble blood. In pride and anger he had forbidden Ñoldorin kin amongst his subjects. In exchange he would sell himself for them, submit to what he would never ask them to do. To protect them.

But why? And then it hit him. Thranduil's wife had been of Ñoldorin descent, it was why his son was not nearly as tall as him, and was more fair of face …

Oh. Loss.

It all came back to the Sinda's fear of loss, to the horror of seeing his dead wife in every face, including his son's. He was terrified to see what was left of his Silvan heritage dissolving along with his way of life. His culture, his people and their sorrow; it was theirs and theirs alone, and he would not let them reach out because they could ill-afford to owe a debt. There were scarcely enough resources available to them as it was.

“My Lord,” Lindir finally spoke; reaching out to touch the other elf's arm, compassion filling him and drowning out his previous fury. “You have helped my Lord Elrond … please let me aid you. Please, at least allow your people song, let your minstrels sing and your hunters hunt … you will lose them forever if you do not allow them to be themselves. You fight to keep them, not as they are but as you feel they must be for your survival. Their survival. But trust me, my entire life has been a study in just such a sacrifice, and I can tell you that is no way to live! You cannot barter your soul in exchange for their safety, either. Giving up of yourself so that they do not have to ... it would not work, it never would; nor could they do enough to make it right by you. And they would see you suffer. They would see through your pride and anger to what you were giving up for them. It would only bring them sorrow that way as well.”

He had expected that Thranduil would jerk away, or pull back in anger at his words.

Instead the King of Greenwood reached out, cupping the side of Lindir's face, blue eyes finding a sort of understanding in warm brown. Then he pulled the singer to him in an embrace, and worried eyes closed exhaustedly.

… and the last puzzle piece fell into place for the musician.

Thranduil had come to Lindir as a wounded animal sought out water. His actions had seemed to be born of malice, but deep down the elf-king was still a terrified young sire. He had taken his throne in sorrow, and raised a son in deeper grief after his wife's death. He had led a people he was too afraid to lose, to grow close to and understand; and the only thing he had left was his pride. Pride which he wore like a mask, a glamour to cover what was beneath; his hurts, and fears, and wounds. But the singer could see through that effortlessly. And that … that was what the Silvan both needed and feared the most. _That_ was why the other had actually bothered to save a lowly musician.

At first the minstrel was not certain what to do, but in the end he followed his instincts as a healer, new though they were. There was no way that he could feel the others' pain like he did and not try to comfort him. This had been an invitation for assistance, as much of a cry for help as hubris would allow. And so it was a mere Linda that held up the great elf-king, stroking his fingertips through long, snowy strands. (One who was still debating if he might get a knife buried in his back for his troubles.)

And when Thranduil began to weep, his knees buckling, Lindir knelt with him, supporting the Sinda as the song bubbled up in him; the words leaving the bard before he could even think about their meaning. And he sang. He sang about the love Elbereth had for them, of the love that had kindled the stars; and he sang about how they were all welcome back among their people. He sang a song so old that even the King of Greenwood did not know its meaning, and he sang of love, forgiveness, and being reunited with those they had lost. And when at last it ended … when the Sinda's tears were dry, and his weary head lifted from Lindir's shoulder; he was regarding the minstrel with new respect, and a sort of bold curiosity.

“How can you sing of things that shall never be?” Thranduil whispered to him, voice rough with his grief.

“ How can you _not_ sing when there is a beautiful future ahead for you, if only you awake and grasp it?” Lindir replied, no judgment in his tone.

“What future?” Thranduil laughed softly, the sound like a bruise leaving those beautiful lips.

“The future where this wood is restored to its former glory, one _you_ write; where your son is free to be with the one he loves, and your people feel joy and safety again. You cannot stop change, you nor I, nor Elbereth herself. Once it is kindled, fate moves on. But not everything is dark. You will always have friends, if only you open your eyes to them; they will always be offering their hands out to you, if only you are not too proud to take what is given. You, you Silvan … you are not mindless beasts, you are the most social creatures among our people. Your passion makes you both feared and respected … perhaps even admired. You do not have a Ring of Power, because you did not need one. Did you ever think of that?”

Thranduil blinked slowly, the words registering but not fully digested out of disbelief.

“You seek to flatter.”

“I seek to tell you that things are not as bad as they seem! You can write a new page in history among men and elves alike! You can teach tolerance and love, even if none has seemingly been extended to you. Not all is lost. Start with your kin. Let your son love whom he wishes without fear it will destroy him. Let your people sing and laugh. Give them something to fight for! Once you do, you will need little else!” Lindir's expression was passionate, brown eyes alight and looking every part the elf-lord that he would never have thought himself capable of becoming.

Thranduil outright laughed at that. His expression was dismissive, but there was a hint of hope in his bright, blue gaze that he could not conceal.“You have been taking notes from Erestor, I see,” the elf-king said. His color was better and his ego was surging protectively back; proof that Lindir had gotten through to the stubborn king. Or at least far enough to communicate … something. “… And that is the price you demand for your help here?”

Or maybe not as much as the bard had hoped. If the other felt that nothing in this world was free, then Lindir would barter with him if it made him more comfortable; though he hated to double back on the truth just to make the Sinda feel safer. “If that is what you believe … then that is what you owe me for my help,” the minstrel replied certainly. “Give hope to your people, to your son. And if you will not, then let me; and watch the future change for the better!” The musician stood, offering his hand down to Thranduil … who predictably did not take it.

Instead the Sinda rose stiffly, turning his back to the minstrel as he dusted off his robes. Once solidly back on his feet again, he held out a trembling hand to a nearby butterfly circling the orchids; seemingly ignoring Lindir just as quickly as he had reached out before. And when the creature landed on his outstretched fingertips he kept his tear dampened gaze focused on it. As if his damning grief had never existed, and had already been wiped away. “Very well,” the Sinda said much too readily.

And Lindir could not help but feel that this, too, had been part of a plot somewhere.

Just then, voices raised in song finally rang all the way into the gardens; joyous as the afternoon feast rose to a fevered pitch.“Do you hear that?” Lindir asked, ignoring his doubts to give the elf-king a smile.

All he got, by means of acknowledgment and dismissal in one, was the wave of a graceful hand; and turning to head towards the sounds of disobedient celebration, the singer could not help a small smile of his own.

He hadn't exactly lost. That in itself was a victory, even if he didn't have all the answers, for himself _or_ Thranduil.

~*~

    A mixture of confusion and relief filled the minstrel as he let the sound of merry-making guide him back towards the feasting hall. He needed time to think about what had just come to pass, and the apparitions from his nightmare were not far from his mind despite his recent detour. He did not want to have to return to Elrond, to wake him from his slumber. His master had been through much and needed rest; and Lindir pounding on the door to be let back in and simultaneously having to explain his excursion to a half-awake and grumpy peredhel … it did not seem like a wise nor viable option.

Besides, he was ravenous. The bit of healing he had been allowed to do for Thranduil had left his stomach cramping with hunger, and the ghost of a headache beginning at the nape of his neck. And no matter how he thought or felt about anything, he would not turn down what smelled to be quail, duck, and rabbit. Of course, he had not been prepared for the grandeur of the dining halls; nor the wave of heat, noise, and energy that slammed into him like a wall as he let himself in.

As he stepped past a set of vast and intricately carved door columns, all heads turned toward him; and for an instant a hush fell. Blinking and blushing at the collective attention; Lindir sighed and waved dismissively at the revelers, encouraging them to continue what they had been doing. They were far from in trouble yet. His gesture was met with a few return nods of relief, and even gales of laughter. Some were quite deep in their cups, and the day was yet young.

Which somehow did not seem like a bad idea to Lindir.

And even less so, when a familiar and powerful arm settled around his shoulders. “Lindir!” cried an inebriated voice.

“ Beriadan! How are you feeling?” Lindir asked without turning to look at the other. (Because they were now standing much too close together for the Ñoldo's comfort.) But he _was_ genuinely glad to see the elf-captain; and an instant later the singer's attention was drawn to Legolas, who was toasting him from one of the nearby high tables, already pouring the minstrel a glass of Dorwinian.

“Much better, thanks to Lord Elrond, and I hear … a certain notorious scholar. Now, please say you will honor us by joining us for the afternoon meal?”

“This is a meal?” Lindir said in disbelief; feeling some of his gloom and fear washing away as he was given another drunken, sideways-hug.

“Meal, bloody best feast we have had in ages … what is the difference?” the captain slurred.

“Probably not much,” the singer replied whimsically, letting himself be dragged along to the tables.

~*~

    Lindir had just reached for the door to their rooms, hand raised, when Elrond startled him by abruptly opening it from the inside. They both stared at each other in surprise, just before the peredhel sighed in relief and drew the minstrel back into their shared quarters.

The master-healer smirked, then, realizing he did not have to ask where the other had been, nor need he have worried. His attendant was not exactly drunk, but there was an aura of lightness to the singer that had not been there the night before. And he smelled of a feast.

As if offering a token of peace, the singer proffered the platter and bottle he had been balancing to his lord; glad that he did not have to explain anything for the time being. His actions must now seem self-explanatory, rather than disobedient or worrisome. Which was wonderful, because Lindir had no intentions of bringing up his nightmares nor his encounter with Thranduil. Not yet, anyway.

“I see you are safe; that is good. I find I have risen regrettably late, and I was wondering why you were not here to insist that I woke in a timely fashion,” the peredhel teased, taking the offered meal with a look of appreciation.

Something about his Lord's manner made Lindir blush, and something low in his chest flutter. Perhaps it was the wine. Then again, perhaps Elrond was eyeing Lindir, not the food. The brunet elf had not forgotten what had passed between them earlier this morning ... and was rather terrible at flirting. He would not know if a blatant blandishment hit him squarely in the forehead. But he was undeniably aflutter at the moment, and that, he had to admit, was most likely a clue.

“I worried you had another nightmare and had fled, or worse that you had decided to face an audience before Thranduil without me,” Elrond admitted as he settled to the edge of the bed by the fire; setting his plate and the bottle of wine on the bed-stand.

Lindir tried to keep himself calm and his affect guileless as he located a cup from one of the nearby writing tables. He then busied himself with pouring the peredhel a glass as his master set about eating with a will. The things he had chosen from the feast were ones he had no doubt his lord would enjoy greatly, and they had several long days of travel and light meals to make up for. “My Lord, you should not worry so. I can take care of myself. Elbereth knows I manage to take care of you well enough,” he replied, allowing himself some humor to try and disarm the situation. And keep Elrond from asking about Thranduil. Anything to keep him from asking about Thranduil.

The musician then tried to keep the time between them comfortable; allowing himself a light-hearted song as he went about tidying up their quarters and attending to garments while his master ate. Of course, there was something about the way the other was watching him. Something that made a place low in Lindir's belly ache with … desire. It both intrigued and embarrassed him, and once again called the minstrel's attention to the fact that things had changed between them. Oh, how they had, and he could still feel his lord's warm mouth against his, and that strong body pressing him against the door …

He shook his head, trying to banish such thoughts as his song faltered, then died on his lips. Now was not the time nor place; they had only just arrived at their destination!

“Lindir,” Elrond called softly, and the minstrel looked up, expression guilty.

“My Lord?”

“Just Elrond. You have been folding and refolding that towel for ten minutes now. Are you certain you are well?” the master-healer asked.

Blushing, Lindir set the piece of fabric down as if it had personally affronted him. Slowly, he turned to face his lord, head bowed. The other was long since done with his plate, and his glass of wine. “I am sorry … M … Elrond. Let me pour you another glass. I am being inattentive,” he said apologetically, moving close enough to reach out and take the cup; the tips of his ears crimson in the guttering firelight of their rooms.

“No,” Elrond said, catching the flustered minstrel's wrist.

Lindir nearly dropped the empty glass, but not from surprise as one might have imagined; and it was the reaction of his body that made him gasp. For the first time he allowed himself to see Elrond. Really see him … like a lover. Dark hair was down from its braid, curling and pooling around powerful shoulders. Sleep robes had slipped to one side, exposing pale skin and the marble-hard muscle beneath. A gift from the half-elf's human blood, the singer supposed; and one that he found himself endlessly appreciative of.

When the peredhel took the wine glass back from his attendant's nerveless fingers, he did not fight him. This was not about failing to do his job well enough … this was. It ...

“It can wait,” Elrond murmured as if reading the singer’s mind; drawing Lindir closer to him until the he more or less tumbled onto the edge of the bed, drawing a grin from his master.

“Y … yes, my Lord,” the minstrel stuttered; his mouth suddenly dry and his voice hoarse.

“I have been flirting with you. Please let me assure you that the reactions you are experiencing are quite natural. I know that you are not being absentminded. Quite the opposite, actually,” Elrond stated reassuringly. Just as he had to dozens of patients over maladies they thought embarrassing or bizarre. Maladies that proved to be nothing more than the natural behaviors of their bodies. Lindir, he could tell, was going to be no exception. Deeply worried and loving brown eyes were now laced with desire; and from the state of the brunet elf’s breeches, the master healer could tell just how naïve and equally desperate he was. To understand was one thing. But to know and experience … that was another world altogether.

“You are beautiful like this, and you have nothing to be ashamed of,” the peredhel continued. Rising from the bed to make sure plates and glasses were set aside, the healer then turned, and put one knee down to the side of Lindir's thigh. Slowly, he bent down to him, hands cupping his face. They both were glowing from the touch of Dorwinion, though far from inebriated. Still, Elrond was careful not to take advantage. “Do you want this? Do you want me, or is this too soon?” In some ways the elf-lord knew the singer had no way to be certain. But … the decision to know or not, should, and always would, rest with his minstrel. He would not choose for him.

Lindir was trembling, but not with fear. The sensations in his body were new ones. The closest he had come to anything like this had been with Elrohir, and he did not know if he should feel guilt for that or not. But then his master was asking, and the singer knew he would not deny him this. This … they both wanted and … “Only with you. I have only ever wanted to share this with you,” he admitted, turning his gaze to Elrond's stormy gray.

“So be it,” the peredhel said, bowing his head to press a kiss to Lindir's forehead. “Slowly. Gently. We are not expected until the 'morrow, of that I am certain; and I would take great care. There is much to experience, and for me … this shall be the last time I ever give myself to another. I belong to you.” He then leaned in to claim those trembling lips. “My heart and body ... they are yours, as they always have been.”

Lindir wanted to protest that he would never deem himself worthy of owning—or being owned by— his master. But then those lips that tasted of fine wine were on his again, and all the pain, loss, and uncertainty faded away. The singer was adrift in the desire between them, and losing his inhibitions more by the moment, when there came a strange sound. A clink of metal on wood in the quiet of the room. Was it possible? The minstrel blinked and pulled back, eyes widening. Was this truly, finally, happening? Had Elrond ...

The Lord of Imladris' ring sat on the bedside table beside their dishes, his hand having placed it there before coming back to stroke through Lindir's hair. There were tears in his eyes, but not necessarily ones of grief. And he slowly began to kiss downward, seeking out the ties of the musician's borrowed robes, his lips skimmed the column of that lean neck; drawing sounds of shocked pleasure from the brunet elf beneath him.

The minstrel did not know what to do or say, or even how to reciprocate. Not now … not when his lord was … kneeling between his thighs? He could not even comprehend how it had come to pass that his robes were pooling on the bed behind him. Nor how the fastenings of his leggings were undone, and Elrond was … he was …

That strong hand clasped around him, guiding him free into the warm air, drawing a whimper from him.

“The first time is most often quick, do not fear,” the peredhel whispered, kissing that lean stomach and making the singer's need jump with pleasure and anticipation. And when he felt the bard’s string-calloused hands finally leave their death grip in the sheets, coming to rest on his shoulders instead; he murmured soft praises. His partner was hesitantly trying to show appreciation without overstepping, and he had to admit he appreciated the care. “Do not worry, I want you to touch me,” the healer encouraged, just before leaning in to kiss the tip of that straining need.

Elrond was going to … he was going to … “Oh, Elbereth!” Lindir keened as that warm mouth closed around him. A strong hand was stroking him, and caressing the heavy warmth beneath even as the healer bobbed his head; taking him all the way to the root. And then the peredhel’s faithful minstrel wasn't worrying any longer. He couldn't think of their unlocked door, Thranduil, or the nightmares that troubled him. He was much too busy trying to wrap his mind around … this. He had never dared to dreamed that intimacy could be so good. Of course he had heard that love between two males could hurt, and that it could be terrible if approached incorrectly; though right now he was certain that he was in good hands. For his lord was doing something very, very right.

It was with reverent fingertips that Lindir finally let himself stroke through Elrond's hair, scarcely believing that this was happening. Scarcely believing that his master’s touch could feel so wonderful and that this was his to have; to hold, and love, and experience. That his lord was really _here_ , and treasured and desired him! Each flick of that tongue, a tightening of lips, or a skillful stroke or squeeze was enough to leave the singer gasping for air; and being as he had never experienced a thing even vaguely like _this_ before ... when he came it was sudden, and surprised both him and the peredhel.

As his world lost focus, the minstrel found himself swooning against the shoulder supporting him; and dully he was aware of his master sputtering where he knelt. Of course, he was worried that he had done something wrong; but Elrond had warned him this might be quick, so he tried to not feel too guilty. And soon enough strong, forgiving hands were guiding him away from his insecurities and pushing him onto his back on the bed. Undeterred, if slightly rueful, the half-elf dropped to his elbows over his lover; careful not to touch his still sensitive and spent need. This drew a vulnerable whimper from his attendant, who was shaking and trying to seek out a way to be closer to … give back. “My Lord, I am sorry … I did not mean to …”

Elrond hushed him again, pulling them closer. “Let me hold you. Wait until the dizziness passes,” he reassured; stroking his fingers through long, chestnut hair where it fanned out against the furs.

Normally such a gesture would have helped, but positioned as they were the singer could feel that his lord was still hard and expectant against his thigh. The realization that his master was still unfulfilled was driven painfully home, and frustration drew tears from those worried, honey-brown eyes. “You did not … Please, I can … I should ...”

But Elrond silenced his distressed minstrel with another kiss, giving him a taste of himself as their lips met. The gesture had practically been a caress, and one that reduced Lindir to a breathless heap on the bed. “I will. I will find relief within you, if you desire it. Though it may hurt, or you may find you do not like it; in which case we stop. Not all have a taste for penetration, and there are many other ways we can be as one. Including, if you desire, you taking me when you have caught your breath.”

Lindir's eyes widened at the mere thought, and he gasped in shock. “No, I could never, I am but a ...”

Elrond's fingertips touched the singer's lips, quieting his objections.

“If you say that you do not deserve this one more time, I will be forced to do something rash, Lindir. You may very well be the only one who is worthy. As for who does what and how … there is so much more to that than my rank or yours; and this is just one of many ways we can make love. If me pleasuring you like this was too much or too soon, we will wait until you are ready. Then … we shall try new things together, one by one; until I know exactly how to bring you to the brink,” the peredhel promised. Still, the master healer could not help but think that he had been too hasty in what he asked of his lover. Lindir was limp against the blankets, trembling as he licked his lips … But the hands that were stroking Elrond’s clothed shoulders seemed far from disinterested. In fact, they seemed almost desperate.

“It is not 'too much'. I want you to … I want you to have me. Even if it hurts, I …” The musician trailed off as he began to panic, once more fearing that he was taking without giving back; it was written so clearly on his face.

Despite the anxiety, thought, there was continuing desire in the minstrel's expression; and Elrond smiled when he felt his partner stirring again in interest.“It should not hurt if I take care and use the right oil. Luckily, I have just the thing,” he soothed, sitting up only long enough to untie his robes and loosen the lacing of his sleep breeches. The look on Lindir's face was priceless as his gaze roamed over his master's form; and those warm brown eyes had suddenly become so driven that the healer didn't know whether to laugh, or groan in desire. “I will not deny that there is a sting, a burning … some aching. But as long as I am gentle and you relax, it will eventually be good for us both. That is, if you think this is something you want to try.”

Lindir looked like he longed to say something more, or even ask questions. Instead he nodded surely and let Elrond move him more fully onto the bed. From there the patient healer assisted him in shedding his boots and leggings; and eventually ... let Lindir help him with his own sleep robes. The minstrel was still learning to see his lord as a lover, and he had to be encouraged more than once to touch, to stroke; that he was welcome to explore every aspect of the changes between them … And when the singer finally began to relax, to yield; the two elves found themselves tangled together on their sides in the sleeping furs, secluded, warm, and fully naked.

Shyly, Lindir had begun to make eye contact; seemingly reassured by the blankets, and taking heart in the sense of privacy. As he did, his hand started to glide curiously down Elrond's chest and stomach … then slipped beneath the furs to take him into his hand. There was wonder on that beautiful face, respect and need as the brunet elf gave him a gentle stroke; and when that gesture drew a sound from deep within the peredhel's throat, the musician looked awed.

“Do I please you?” the Lord of Imladris rumbled, voice drowsy with pleasure.

Lindir did not even have to think about that. “Yes. And I want you to claim me. I want you, and _this_ , even the shape of you fills me with desire ...” the singer whispered reverently. “I never thought that I would want to take a lover, nor experience anything like this, and yet … you. I want _you_ , I want to be yours.” He gave his master another caress, the awkwardness leaving him as he grew more insistent. He had heard that first times were supposed to be embarrassing; but other than his rather quick performance at the beginning, he did not feel like Elrond was laughing at him or finding this uncomfortable. Just the opposite. Neither of them were in that much of a hurry, and the peredhel was patiently waiting; letting Lindir run his hands all over his body, letting him continue to study him. That was, until the singer discovered he could rock their hips together. After that, and judging by the look of pleased long-suffering on Elrond’s face, neither of them could bear to tarry much longer; even if the motions between them were languid. “Please?” Lindir pleaded. He had taken time enough as it was.

This made the peredhel shake his head, smiling at his partner's boldness. “If you insist, but let me warm the oil first?” he asked, just before reaching off the edge of the bed and catching the strap of his travel pack. Pulling it closer he fished around inside, and then pulled back triumphantly clutching a vial. Within was an amber liquid, and he clasped the crystal container tightly into his fist to heat it.

“My Lord, I …”

“We can end this if at any time you do not like or want something. I must trust that you will speak up. Can you do that, Lindir? Swear to me that if it hurts, you will tell me.”

“I swear it,” Lindir said solemnly, stopping the lazy friction between them when he worried he might bring himself too close again.

Elrond gave the brunet elf a reassuring smile before drawing them even closer together; taking the halt of motion in stride. Touch would be the most important part of this at first, and he intended to make this time as good as he could for the other. If his minstrel had waited thousands of years to give his virginity; then the peredhel resolved to make this nothing less than perfection.

“Good,” the healer confirmed and praised all at once; drawing Lindir in for a deeper kiss. This made the singer gasp his name again; and encouraged a reassuring nuzzle from the elf-lord before he pulled a heavy fur up over them both. The added sense of closeness would be welcome, he was certain. His minstrel was ready. He could feel it in the way they touched, and who was he to keep him longing? “Now, try to relax. Close your eyes if you need to, and just let me massage you at first. You need to breathe, and I will go slowly.”

Elrond then freed his other hand (the one that had been carding lovingly through Lindir’s hair) so that he could open the vial; and when he did, the brunet elf’s eyes were following his every move; curious, nervous … and determined as his master coated two of his fingers with the viscous stuff. The peredhel had always loved the scent of this oil; and the herbs within were safe to be used in delicate places, while helping to numb some of the sting of penetration. They also left a pleasantly warm sensation, and he hoped that would make this all the better for his sensitive partner.

When Elrond finally lowered his hand beneath the blankets, Lindir let him move him into a slightly better position. Said position was with his thigh up over the healer's hip, while the peredhel began to delve and stroke around the minstrel's tight entrance. Everything was fair game, from the expanse of skin between need and opening to between firm buttocks; and while the singer had flinched at first, his expression had quickly gone from one of worry to … pure desire. A massage like this could be a wonderful thing; and soon enough the musician was so hard between them that the Elrond worried _that_ was what would become painful.

“My Lord,” Lindir praised, hiding his face into his master's shoulder.

“I know, just breathe, there … yes,” Elrond said, feeling the other slowly sagging down to the furs, relaxing against him even as his body was pleading for more. And that was when the healer let him have just that. Carefully, just an index finger began to tease around the rim, and then … he slid into that tight heat up to the first knuckle, hearing Lindir gasp. Of course it did not hurt, but the sensation took getting used to. What the healer had not expected was for the minstrel to buck his hips back, burying that slick digit the rest of the way, brow furrowed.

“I will not break. It does not hurt,” Lindir said determinedly.

“Shh, no, of course it does not, and no you will not; but let me spread the oil to ease the way ...” Elrond soothed, pressing his finger slightly deeper and then crooking it just a little to try to locate … He knew when he found it. Lindir made a sound of shock, hips jerking forward of their own accord as he struggled for purchase against his master.

“Again!” The singer demanded. “Do that again!”

And Elrond obliged him with a chuckle. This time with two fingertips. The other did not seem bothered in the least, so focused was he on that new sensation. And even when the peredhel began to stretch him, both fingers opening him further while alternating with stroking that place deep inside; he did not flinch again. The part of Lindir that had been highly reserved seemed to have gone out the window, and the half-elf might have been more than slightly pleased with that. Watching his beloved minstrel come undone was treat enough, even if they never went any further than this. However, judging from the musician's reaction … that would not be the case.

When at last he had buried three fingers, and Lindir was pleading gamely for more, the healer could not help himself; he could wait no longer. Slicking his length, he changed their positions once again; crouching between the brunet elf’s thighs, fur up over his back and the singer’s knees on either side of his hips. “Slowly. Do not rush,” he reminded the minstrel; who was reaching between their bellies to once again give Elrond a stroke, feeling the shape of him before his touch went to his own desire, damp with oil. “Touch yourself if it helps, and tell me if it is too much.”

Lining himself up with a free hand, the peredhel let his digits slip from that tight body. He would have to if he were to replace them with something more; but still the scholar murmured at the loss. To ease the disappointment, the elf-lord wiped the oil from his fingertips on a nearby under-tunic and then clasped Lindir's hand, meshing their grasp.

“I love you,” Lindir whispered softly when he had recovered; those warm brown eyes meeting Elrond's, unafraid as he squeezed the peredhel's fingers.

“And I love you,” Elrond replied, before slowly beginning to press against that tight entrance. The expression on his face was one of adoration and desire.

Lindir gasped in surprise when his body finally yielded; and gripped tight when the head first slipped inside ... but then there was no turning back. The minstrel was not terribly tense, and that made the plunge all the easier. For an instant, when the widest part of Elrond caught and the singer clenched down around him, the peredhel had to pause. But a few rocks of his hips, out and back in, eased the way; and soon enough he was buried as deeply as he could go, Lindir letting go of his hand to cling to his upper arms, gasping and shivering.

There. That was it. The worst was over, and the brunet elf was so hot and tight around Elrond that it stole his breath. Kissing his attendant's upturned face, and wiping tears away from the corner of his eyes, the elf-lord would have given anything to keep this moment forever. Of course, he knew that was not possible; and a warm tingle between their joined bodies reminded him that he had forgotten about something. Something important.

This was more than just taking a lover. He was effectively taking Lindir as a life-mate, and they were now one before the Valar. It was very different than a quick rut. Even different than his release with Thranduil, or wedding and making love with Celebrían for the first time. It was a promise for all of eternity; and a depth of commitment that he realized he had tried, and failed, to make before. Not because he had not been sincere enough, no. It was because he had not been meant to be with any of his other lovers forever. Whether he had been able to admit it or not … the Valar must have known.

And Lindir … he had just given the biggest gift he could to his lord. One that could not be accepted without giving and taking all. Without them becoming so completely one that it was impossible to tell where Elrond stopped, and the minstrel began. Once, the peredhel had read that such a union could be damnably strong between healers. Unfortunately, he found he was only able to confirm this now, and he had not thought to warn his partner. Admittedly, that was an oversight. However, he was also realizing that he would no longer have to feel longing for a relationship as close as Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel’s. He did not have to feel alone or like he was struggling to be accepted. He already was. And he would never be alone again.

The tingle became a wash of energy between the two lovers, one that stole sting and ache away and replaced them with a sensation of warmth. Energy stroked against energy, and Elrond only had a instant to realize what was about to happen, while Lindir was taken completely unaware. And when the magics between them finally merged together … when Elrond felt as if he was being taken as surely as Lindir felt he was giving … it was all the healer could do to restrain himself.

This time, the peredhel did not run or try to fight as he had when he had first tried to heal Lindir. Instead he began to move with the flow of energy between them; feeling the singer’s love and devotion like a bandage over a wound so deep and hidden that he did not know it could even be reached. Pleasure became its own living entity, and when Elrond began to fully thrust, Lindir was already moving fearlessly back to meet him, keening softly in his ear. There was no pain, there was only pleasure, and Elrond had to admit. Never. Never had it been this good with anyone before. Never had it been like this with anyone else. There was not even a possible comparison; and soon he was weeping softly, the sensation of being alone dissipating as he gave himself over to the minstrel; as he allowed himself to fall and let someone catch him for once. He was grateful, intensely grateful, even as the motions between he and Lindir became instinctive. Nothing was, nor had been, awkward or full of hissed words and tense breaths. No, they were sliding together like this because they already knew each other, how could they not when they were this close?

Vaguely he remembered to vary himself, the depth and angle, until every one of his strokes were drawing utterances from Lindir; calling forth sounds that were so honest and so well-pleased that the healer could not help a sense of pride. He had never. Ever. In all of his adventures as a lover made someone cry out like this.

And Lindir … the minstrel was so lost, drowning in the sensation of being filled. Of ache becoming a kind of pleasure that made his skin tingle, and his body move of its own accord. Of course there had been a sting at first, a clench that he could not help. But now—now the thing he had so long avoided and Elrond had run from had come to pass—there was no more holding back. They were one. There was no more awkwardness, no more stubborn inexperience and unrequited longing to tear them apart. Their hearts beat in time, and the magic between them was like the approval of the Valar themselves. And maybe it was. But never had the minstrel felt so sure of himself, never had he been so certain that he belonged somewhere, or with someone. And he could not help it, the cries tumbling from his lips long and loud. Every time that his master found that place inside of him that made him see stars, he worried he might come undone too soon; although he was quickly becoming aware that was something they could not avoid forever. His body was tiring, his muscles new to this sort of exertion; and it was perfect and too much all at once. “Elrond!” he sobbed, fingers tangling in that dark hair and tugging desperately. “I cannot... I am … I … more … please!”

When they could no longer bear to be apart, even by a few inches, the peredhel obeyed his lover's pleading, dropping down to his elbows; each thrust growing deeper, harder, and more searching than the last as his control came to an end. And even before he spilled out, deep and desperate with a cry of triumph, Lindir clenched around him, finishing not once, but twice.

All too soon the world came back into focus for the duo; but thankfully the warm light of the bond between them was still cradling them as they came down. Lindir was stunned, and to be truthful, so was Elrond. Neither of them had experienced anything like this in their life; and to the senses of an elf, the passion had nearly been painful. The minstrel had not even had to touch himself, and to the peredhel it felt like he had barely begun …

But they weren't ready to move yet, either.

The Lord of Imladris rested his head against his beloved’s shoulder, and partially against the pillow, not able to take his weight from him; and Lindir was clutching so tightly that it was obvious he could not stand to let Elrond go, either.

“I love you,” the singer finally managed, the only other sound in the room their harsh breathing.

“More than I could ever have realized. And I … I love you, even if I did not understand at first. Never leave me,” the peredhel gasped, not yet able to apologize for their lovemaking becoming rough or sudden; or the surge of power between them.

“You know that I never have, and never will,” Lindir replied steadfastly. (Well, perhaps just that once, but it wasn’t like he had gotten very far.)

His statement made a small smile turn up the corner of the peredhel's mouth, drawing them both back into the present as they regained their collective senses. “We eventually need to bathe, or we shall be very sore,” Elrond observed as he looked down, finally able to string together a coherent thought. His words were as close to an extenuation as he could get; and while Lindir continued to blink away tears, they both tried to catch their breath.

“Yes, but I don't want you to slip out,” the musician replied innocently, drawing a groan and then a soft laugh from his partner.

“Just a little while longer, then?” Elrond queried.

“Just a few moments longer,” Lindir echoed, sounding exhausted, and very … very content.

~*~

    Lindir had been embarrassed to find that they had made a mess of their sleeping furs; but Elrond had come to the rescue when he suggested they could be washed later, and flipped them over. Then a soak in a shared hot bath had been required; one full of careful touches and reassurances that both elves had absorbed with a sort of starvation. (Though they did not stay overlong, as they were exhausted.)

And when the peredhel had applied some healing salve to ease the ache for his beloved. When both were washed, dried, and tucked back into their blankets, two glasses of Dorwinion between them; the minstrel had never been more grateful for all the cold and lonely nights in the past. It had been worth every single one of them.   
  
Of course he worried, now more than ever, that Thranduil might challenge him, might come back and try to take Elrond from him; but he was doing his best not to think about that. And as he curled up naked in his master’s arms, body pleasantly sore from lovemaking, his skin tingling with the promise of devotion that would never die; he knew that the vast majority of his fears were foolish.

And this time, when he fell asleep, nearly spilling his half-empty cup, he had no nightmares at all.

~*~

    Glorfindel threw his shoulder into his opponent, knocking him down and nearly off of the bridge. His sword sang through the air, and the baying of the night watch catching up with him was deafening in the mountain darkness. The edge of the golden warrior’s blade barely missed the intruder’s neck as he rolled out of the way at the last moment; sending some long hairs drifting lazily into the waters below. The seneschal then took a few skipping steps backward; giving ground so that he might get a better view of who he was fighting. The other was skilled …

And just as the warrior felt Erestor dash up on his right; the watch arrived to the far side of the span, their torches held high. They had successfully cut off the interloper so that he had no choice but to face them, or jump into the river. What was illuminated by his men made Glorfindel blink, not able to believe what he was seeing. Beside him, the seneschal heard Erestor’s breath leave him in a rush.

Unmistakably crimson hair flared gold in the torchlight, and the tall elf before them was heaving for air, green eyes narrowed defensively. “Where is your lord?” he demanded, not in the least off-put by being tackled by Glorfindel in the dark.

“Maedhros, Fëanorion,” Glorfindel sighed, sheathing his sword. “Whom do you serve?” A few of the guard took this as a hint, nocking arrows uncertainly; awaiting both an answer and a command.

“I serve the house of Elrond,” Maedhros said darkly. “Or I would, if it were not currently trying to separate my head from my body.”

A tired hand was then dragged through fiery hair, pushing it back out of the tall warrior’s face. The hand that had once been missing … if Glorfindel recalled correctly.

“What do you here, and at this hour?” Erestor demanded a better explanation, still suspicious as he came to stand supportively at his beloved’s shoulder.

“Word came to me that my son was in need … I came as quickly as I could,” the red-haired elf explained.

Erestor and Glorfindel shared a glance, then. This was going to be very difficult to explain on many fronts; and partially, they both were looking forward to hearing whatever yarn was to be spun.

“Stand down,” the seneschal ordered his men without ever really looking away from Maedhros. Perhaps it was best he had been out on patrol this night, whether Erestor had been happy about it or not. He had a feeling things were about to get interesting, for better or for worse.   
  
~*~  
TBC  
~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** Linda:** “Singers” [[ http://www.elfdict.com/translate.php?term=linda &ajax=false ]] I have this head canon that I apply to Lindir, [[Erroneously :D]] Basically when Tolkien was still plotting things out for the first time, the Lindar were one of his initial elf 'clans' in his musings. They were known for their musical talents. (All of the tribes had different token talents. I think they were seven, I cannot remember how many precisely.) I'm pretty sure that all became Vanyar stuff later and the clans disappeared into one when Tolkien revised his plot; but if I dabble in the past notes, it isn't completely far-fetched to assume that since all existing elves descended from said tribes (tribe?), the skill of being a singer (and even a spirit healer as, "Singer" is the literal translation of the word ...) could easily be in Lindir's blood. You don't have to agree with me. You just have to deal with my insanely stupid plot bunnies ^______^;
> 
>  ****Mellonen:** “Friend”
> 
>  **A/N:** Oh god this chapter is really belated and very long. What can I say. It was a challenge through and through. Writing Elrond and Lindir's first time, and the other side of the coin for Thranduil ... Both objectives were very challenging, and rewarding. Though I might have pulled my hair out at some point. I am also going to warn you I have probably screwed up 'something', and probably all over the place  <3 I will read this again in a week or so to make sure I've ferreted out any errors, and in the mean time; I hope you enjoy it, regardless! All mistakes within are my own, and yeah, it was really sweet and 'magical' between Elrond and Lindir. What else did you expect from elves :D
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I would also like to add that I'm really not into criticism. Some things mentioned here are head-canon and not perfectly true to Tolkien. I'm writing this story for my own entertainment. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't, well, no one is making you read it and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Beta Credit: All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
> Zeta Reader: All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond begins to fade to his grief. Who will heal the healer? A story of things lost, and found.

 

** Chapter Sixteen: **

    Lindir awoke by degrees, and his first thoughts were of how warm and comfortable he was. He could tell by the muffled pops and crackles nearby that the fire had burned down to embers; and his deeply ingrained sense of duty told him that he should arise and stoke it. But he did not. For once he was so very comfortable that he could not bear the thought of leaving … Leaving Elrond.

What had …  
  
With a start of surprise the faithful attendant attempted to struggle his eyes open. He did remember falling asleep beside his master; and a slight stretch revealed a warm body against his. Or at least, half a body against his. He was sore, and as he moved his leg to curl closer to his bedmate, he winced. His back and everything below his tailbone was aching, and he was desperately trying to recall how such a thing had come to pass. His mind was as sluggish as the rest of him, but when he finally managed to crack one eye open, what he saw brought last night's endeavors back to him in a rush.

His lord was propped up against the pillows on their bed, his fingers tangled in Lindir's silky hair. Somehow the minstrel had managed to lay his head upon his stomach when they had changed positions, and now they were like this. Lindir curled around Elrond's lower body, as the master-healer studied something in his hand. The singer had no idea what that object was yet, but instinctively he knew that something important was happening. **  
  
**“You are awake?” the peredhel asked, his tone warm with drowsy adoration.  
  
Lindir turned his confused but devoted gaze to his lord; and brow furrowed, he gave him a misty-eyed nod of his head. He was not certain he trusted himself to speak just yet, and he was afraid that all that would leave his lips was a shaken sob. What his master had been doing had finally registered for the minstrel, and his heart was flooded with guilt and pain.  
  
Elrond had been turning Celebrían's ring over in his fingers thoughtfully. But at his lover's obvious distress, he guiltily set it back to the bedside stand; gray eyes widening when he realized the implications of what he had been caught doing.  
  
“I should go,” Lindir said, an air of frantic distress around him as he tried to untwine himself from the peredhel and the blankets. There were tangles of confused and raw emotions tripping over each other in the singer's chest, each vying for supremacy.  
  
“No. Lindir, come here. Come to me. No, beloved. Do not run. Come here. It is not as it seems,” the healer whispered fiercely; caught between trying not to hurt his lover, (as his fingers were still tangled in his hair) and trying to grasp his upper arms to stop him from fleeing.  
  
Lindir only halted when warm and strong hands restrained his shoulders, and the look he gave Elrond was one of utter pain and failure. “I should have known. I knew that it was too soon. I know that your heart is still with her. I know I am just ...”  
  
“Lindir, you are not a replacement. You and I are … we are one already. We cannot go back to how we used to be. It has been quick, I admit; but I could not bear to stay upon these shores alone. I know now that you and I were always meant to be. But before we could be together certain things had to come to pass; for the fate of Middle Earth and for that of elves as a whole. I do not want to go back, to my wife or to Thranduil. And I cannot. Though I do admit that the wounds within me are still fresh; and while you are a strong bandage over them, I cannot help peeking beneath at the injury. Please forgive me, I did not mean to upset you.”  
  
Lindir's breathing was still quick, but he could taste the truth in Elrond's words. He knew there had been no malice in the peredhel's actions, but his fear of loss and abandonment had led him to jump to conclusions far too readily. And when he found the courage to meet his master's gaze again, he was frozen with indecision and trembling.  
  
“Lindir,” Elrond tried again, sitting up far enough that his grasp could become a much gentler sideways embrace. “Come back to bed. Come back to me. I know that you are hurting. Your body aches, and your heart is confused. You went through something momentous last night, and you gave an important gift. One that you have held on to for centuries. Your heart is uncertain and it aches, too. Aches for the lady that you lost, and feels guilt for your happiness. You still have nightmares about her death, for it was you who found her first. I know you do, and I have not overlooked your wounds.”  
  
The minstrel remained stiff for a few heartbeats longer, braced against his lord and his kind words. He was hiding from the pain and the fear, and trying not to give in. But Elrond's arms were warm and reassuring, and slowly he let himself be drawn back to the bed. Back beneath the covers where he buried his face into his master's shoulder and wept; though he would not admit the nightmares. And as difficult as it was for him, he let the peredhel comfort him.

Finally, when his sobs had faded to puffy eyes, and fitful tears. When Elrond's soft and reassuring whispers had become strokes of that sleep-tangled brunet hair; the singer allowed himself to speak.

“I raised your children. From the day they were born to the day they came of age, I cared for them as if they were my own. I taught them all that I know. I attended the lady from the day you were both wed, until the last moment of your union, when her heart stilled beneath my hand. I cannot forget these things and all the little perfect moments in between. I cannot put them aside. Your family was mine, and I … I am so lost without her,” Lindir admitted. “I know what she desired. She knew of my feelings even before I did. I know she would want this, want for you and I to... Yet I feel horrible guilt. I cannot stop dreaming of what came to pass.” His voice broke, then, and he could not continue.  
  
Elrond said nothing, merely nodding and listening. And when Lindir could not go on, he kissed his temple appreciatively. For the longest time neither of them said any more. Neither elf tried to move or change the grief in the air between them. Eventually, the peredhel did speak, and when he did his words were measured; for the minstrel had moved his heart, too.  
  
“It is as Thranduil said. I promised her I would love her forever, but fate took her far from me. Fate prevented her from keeping her promise to me. The wounds she bore, I am certain that they are healed now; but because of them she is no longer who she once was, and never will be again. She is not the same maiden I vowed my heart to forever, and she cannot be my wife any longer. I know this, and at last I understand. Facing the fear of taking her own life; she chose what she did to spare me an eternity of waiting for love that could not be returned. And some days, I feel as if I failed her, too. As a husband, as a healer … but she would not want me to. She does not want me to be unhappy and alone. To forever grieve her would invalidate her sacrifice. Thus reminded; I am certain of one thing, and one thing alone. She has reached that far shore. And while I do not know if I can ever trust or believe in the Valar again, she does. And she will find joy once more. Of that I am certain.” Elrond took a shaky breath, forcing away the sting of his words. As he did, he felt Lindir's fingertips stroking over his heart.

And when the singer's swollen eyes finally met his, there was understanding where there had once been fear.  
  
“You should wear it, on a chain around your neck. Wear it until you are ready,” Lindir said unselfishly, his previous frights pushed aside.  
  
“With your blessing, I very well may. I have taken it off my finger, but it is hard to fully part,” the peredhel apologized.  
  
“I think I understand,” the minstrel replied, his countenance reflecting an equal longing.  
  
“I have no doubt that you do; but the morning is still young. Just dawning, in fact. I think I should like to spend another hour in your arms, if you do not mind?” Elrond asked.  
  
Lindir smiled at that, something tight in his chest relaxing at the understanding they had come to. “Yes, I think I would enjoy that very much.”  
  
“And if I were to heal where you are aching?” Elrond apologized.  
  
“I should like that even more,” the singer replied ruefully.  
  
~*~ **  
  
**Maedhros was aware of what felt like the collective ambivalence of Imladris at his back.  His return had led to such a ruckus that even Glorfindel had not been quite certain what to do with him. His height and red hair had made him unmistakable, so the warrior had spent the night dozing in the courtyard of the House of Elrond; away from prying eyes. He had been told a decision regarding his fate would be reached by morning. Apparently, such a thing had come to pass; for he found himself staring at ... what appeared to be two identical copies of a much younger Elrond.

The ancient warrior's eyebrows were raised in just as much surprise as his hosts' were; and while he though he had seen everything in his many years … this he had not been prepared for.  
  
“I am Elladan, Firstborn son of Lord Elrond, Half-elven,” the twin with the longer hair stated. “And you, Maedhros Fëanorion, stand before me within my father's city. I fear the decision of what to do with you has fallen to me in my sire's absence. This is my brother, Elrohir.”  
  
The twin with more braids in his shorter hair bowed to Maedhros, a hand over his heart politely. And the warrior's stomach knotted in pride, grief, and ... love. Elrond's sons. These two young elf lords were the adopted grandsons he had never had the chance to meet.

It was only years of practice in schooling his expression that gave Maedhros power over his burgeoning regret. Had the Valar decided against sending him back, he would not have known of, nor met Elrond's children. It had never been so obvious that he had given up too soon. Not even when he had been atoning for his crimes in the Halls of Mandos.

The choices that he had made ...

Especially the ones that he had thought were his, and his alone to decide. They had effected much. The warrior had been so demoralized that he had come to believe that one elf could not possibly make a difference, and he had thought that he was protecting his brother, Elrond, and Elros. In the end, his decision to take his life had led to his last surviving sibling spending eternity wandering in grief; and to the loss of their adopted sons. One to a choice of mortality, and the other, who yet lived, to his own fears. Maedhros’ suicide had resulted in more destruction and grief than all of his time fulfilling his oath; yet he had somehow thought it wise. Wisdom of the Eldar indeed. The two elflings before him had more sense than he had. At least they knew what he was capable of, and had not welcomed him with open arms.

“I do not envy you such a large decision. I assume you had council?” Maedhros finally managed to respond, thankful that his voice was steady. He had been lost in thought to the point of rudeness, and taken too long to reply.  
  
“Ah, so you did hear my Lord's children,” Erestor's voice broke the tense silence as he drifted into the warrior's view. He had been nearby in the shadows, watching. The councilor was making a point to remind Maedhros that the lord's sons were not alone; and rightly so. The dark-haired scholar was not unprotected, either. For across the courtyard, Glorfindel took a step closer, arms crossed protectively where he guarded the door.  
  
“Of course I did,” Elladan said, a smile turning up the corner of his mouth. “I am my father’s son.”  
  
“I see that,” Maedhros trailed off, his amused grin echoing Elladan's. No, the apple had not fallen far from the tree. “And you are safe to ask me whatever you must to make your decision.”  
  
    Elladan could not help but like the elf before him. Of course, he had already heard all about the sons of Fëanor from his father. But this was an unusual circumstance. Mind, it was one that had happened before in Imladris; but it was rare for lightning to strike twice in the same place. There was also a noticeable change in the way that Maedhros had been described to him. Or namely, the most important feature. So he could not trust the strange warrior just yet.

He had to be careful, everyone did, as there was dark sorcery about. Elladan could not hope to be half as wise as his father, and unconsciously his fingertip stroked the ring on his hand as he considered Imladris' safety. “Why do we not start with the simplest question first?” he began, feeling more than seeing Elrohir draw closer to his side. “Why are you here?”  
  
At the eldest twin's words the tall, red-haired warrior drew himself up to his full height. “I am here to swear fealty to your father, and to your lands and people.”  
  
“Have you not had enough of fealty, yet?” Elladan interjected.  
  
This outright made Maedhros laugh, and somehow the mood of the courtyard lightened substantially. When the warrior spoke again, his words were serious, but the expression on his face was warm and kind.  
  
“I have been sent back to my son by the Valar. Whole, so that I might better serve him and Arda. While some elves might feel that they have been abandoned, forgotten, and forbidden pardon  … that is not altogether true. After all, You know of my crimes and I stand before you now. Manwë has heard the cries of the lost.  There is a need for hope once more, and while some might forbid him action, the letter of the law does have ... loop holes. And …  perhaps I was driving Námo mad with my questions. That factors in, too. I believe I am here to remind all of Arda that it is not without help. That all things are possible, even in dark hours. I am here to do what is right and good with my time. I am here because one life, no matter how great or small, can make a difference. I know that now. _That_ is worth swearing fealty to.”  
  
From the corner of his eye, Elladan noticed that Glorfindel was grinning widely, and Erestor's expression had softened as well.  
  
~*~  
  
    Maglor looked down into the courtyard from behind a carved pillar, his heart frozen in his chest. He could not believe what he was seeing. He had been aware of what had come to pass, and he had sensed it—how could he not, a brother always knew. And now he had no choice other than to face the truth, which was something he was not prepared for.

The wanderer bit his lip and closed his eyes tightly. That crimson hair, that pale skin and lanky form. It was Maedhros. There was no illusion or dark magic involved. His heart would know his sibling anywhere. And despite the fact that the he knew Elrond's sons were passing judgment upon him, and Elladan's decision regarding the matter was of great and terrible importance ... Maglor could not make himself vouch for his sibling.  
  
He was caught between relief, love, and terrible grief. There was nothing the minstrel wanted more than to run down, unannounced and unwelcome as he was, and throw his arms around Maedhros. He so longed to hold his brother. To tell him that he loved him, and that he was sorry. Sorry for everything. But greater than that love and sorrow, was the fear that what he was seeing would be an illusion. Or worse, that he would have to admit that the Valar might care about and forgive the transgressions of the house of Fëanor. For of all the things keeping Maglor alive, the greatest motivation was his inability to forgive himself. And so he slumped to his knees, his breathing ragged with pain.  
  
They were so close, only a matter of yards apart, and he could not make himself take a single step nearer.  
  
~*~  
  
    Lindir had received what felt like the tenth slap to his shoulder in the last half hour, and he was wincing at the joy and enthusiasm of his newly found friends. His lord had disappeared into the gardens after their meal together, leaving the minstrel to Beriadan's _tender_ ministrations. And by that, what the singer meant was that he was being congratulated raucously, again and again; and he thought that his ears would never stop burning with embarrassment. Apparently there was something about him, whether it was his expression, his posture, or simply his aura … but every elf in the hall seemed to know what he had been up to.  
  
Of course, the singer was of proper upbringing, and he would never admit to a single joyous accusation. But inside he might have allowed himself the slightest bit of satisfaction. Elrond was his, and he was his Elrond's. And everyone knew.    
  
“Come! This calls for a song!” the elf-captain cheered.  
  
And while the blushing attendant was overwhelmed by the attention he was receiving; he agreed. He intended to sing very long and loud. Maybe he wanted Thranduil to know how wrong he had been. Maybe he wanted to grate on the elf-king's nerves. And maybe, just maybe, the singer had something to be proud of. Something he could finally share with Eä. At long last he knew of love, and he hoped it would breathe new life into his world as well as his quill.  
  
~*~  
  
    Elrond sat unmoving, staring thoughtfully into the fountain before him. All around him orchids bloomed; and there was an air of sadness and deep love to the carvings of the garden he had stumbled upon. He had managed to convince Lindir to let him have some time to himself; though he had known that if he made his way here, if he walked the halls he had seen in his dreams, he would not be alone.  
  
And he was not disappointed.  
  
There came the quiet rustle of robes, and then a shadow fell over the peredhel.  
  
The master-healer knew who had sat down beside him, but neither looked at the other. They were both equally concerned with play of light and shadow in the leaves surrounding them.  
  
“I want to thank you,” Elrond said, reaching out to stroke an orchid bloom where it nearly skimmed the the surface of the water beneath it.  
  
“Why would you possibly thank me?” that arrogant voice asked, a breathy but strangely kind laugh swallowing the last word.  
  
“I know you two spoke,” the healer said, withdrawing his hand and returning it to his knee.  
  
“What of it?”  
  
“I want to thank you for what you said. Whether you sparked jealousy, understanding, or love … or some combination of the three. You changed him.”  
  
“I did not change him. I believed in him. I knew that it was worth my life to go back and rescue a mere minstrel. Not because it was my duty, but because the smallest things in life sometimes have the biggest purpose.” This time it was the Sinda who reached out to touch an orchid, and with a look of regret he plucked the blossom.  
  
“You gave up— ”  
  
“—I gave up nothing I did not intend to,” the elf-king said, turning to Elrond only to tuck the bloom into the intricate braid behind his ear. A braid that he knew that Lindir had made.  
  
Elrond froze at the brush of long, gentle fingers; clearly fighting the impulse to turn into the Sinda's touch.  
  
“But what have you gained?” the healer asked, feeling the faintest flash of guilt as Thranduil turned away again, studying a blue butterfly as it fluttered past.  
  
“Did I not say so before? I came to you for power. The power to save my people, and I vowed not to leave without it. But I did not … for it is here with me. It was bestowed upon me by someone who had no idea they even possessed it. And now? Do you hear them?”  
  
The peredhel tilted his head. He could hear Lindir's joyful voice echoing down the solemn stone walls of the corridor nearest them. “I do hear them singing,” Elrond admitted, a warm smile at last gracing his countenance. One that was tempered by regret.  
  
“Precisely.”  
  
~*~  
  
    The minstrel was hoarse, but he had forgotten all reservation. He had never had such a time as he had with the elves of Thranduil's caverns. They were so hungry for any kind of joy in their day. Lindir suspected that normally they would be off hunting, gathering, or struggling against the encroaching darkness. But for the time being they seemed to be willing to risk inaction for feasting and song.  
  
Legolas had even hazarded a dance with Beriadan, one that had turned into several to the amusement of most of the hunters present. There had been laughter and cheers, and eventually the two had to stop for fear Thranduil would stumble upon them. Honestly, the singer wished that they had been allowed to continue; but he understood the risk of their relationship better than most.  
  
“Do not look so glum, have another drink,” Beriadan said, interrupting Lindir's thoughts.  
  
The elf-captain was fully recovered, and in such light spirits from dancing that he was practically transformed.  
  
“If I drink any more, I will not be able to stand; and what good is a minstrel who cannot walk about the hall?” Lindir laughed.  
  
“Speaking of that, I was talking with Legolas. We have several young minstrels that have not been allowed outside of the caverns in ages; let alone permitted to ply their trade. We thought you might be willing to take them on an outing, and it would give us a chance to further show you around the Greenwood,” the captain wheedled.    
  
Legolas strode up, then; and wiping the sweat from his brow he offered a fresh cup of cool water to Beriadan, who was not in much better of a state. The two lovers were sweat-damp from their capering.  
  
“What Beriadan is trying to say,” the elf-prince amended smoothly. “Is that our singers were not much encouraged nor inspired before you arrived. We thought taking them out into the forest, and giving them time to write without my father breathing down their necks, might be good for them,” Legolas was flush with wine, but far from drunk, and the relief in his expression was almost palpable.  
  
The minstrel blinked at the request. There was nothing special about him. He was more of an attendant than an artisan. He was not that good at giving advice, nor teaching; and he had always left such things up to Erestor and Glorfindel. But there was a part of him that was curious. Damnably curious. And he had certainly found himself bolder of spirit since arriving to the Greenwood. Of course, he had chalked that up to desperation. But he _did_ desire to see the forest. Who knew if he would ever get a chance to do so again; and with the captain of the guard and Greenwood’s prince as his guides, no less.  
  
Then there was the matter of spiders.  
  
The minstrel knew about them, and he had assuredly not forgotten yesterday's near disaster. Then again, he assumed that neither had Beriadan or Legolas. Perhaps the duo were hoping that another attack would not come, or that the encounter had been purely coincidental and singular. Lindir certainly wanted to believe that, especially when he desired to be out from under all of the stone around him.

The singer might have come of age in Nargothrond, but Thranduil's caverns were not the same in the slightest. The minstrel had never passed an instant in his birth-place that had filled him with dread; and while the air of oppression was lighter now than it had been, the caves were still heavy with grief.  
  
To feel any amount of warm sunlight upon his face began to sound more and more appealing to Lindir, for there was an edge of panic growing somewhere deep in his chest. To think that he and Elrond had only been here for less than two days!

The minstrel shook his head at himself; and hating being carried away by his hosts' enthusiasm, and his own claustrophobia, he grudgingly agreed.  
  
There was no way that he could really say no. And briefly he spared a thought for Elrond, hoping his master would be safe without him, and that he was making the right diplomatic decision. Part of him wanted to believe that it could hurt nothing to lighten a few heavy hearts. The other half reminded him of how Beriadan had looked with a snapped spider fang driven through his shoulder.  
  
  


~*~  
  
    Thranduil had no sooner left Elrond's side, when the peredhel felt it. The first tingling of something … something large and overwhelmingly dark. His hands splayed out on the edge of the fountain, bracing himself upright. The sensation had begun yesterday with the spiders, but it was quickly giving way to something more.  
  
He tried to fight the oncoming vision, and he knew it for what it was. He knew he would helpless without Lindir at his side to speak for him; but he did manage to call out for help before he slumped to the hard flagstone of the garden pathway. And as the veil pulled over his eyes, and the nearby roots of a tree became a pillow for his head; the vision of a starry night sky washed over him and pulled him under.

    He was walking upon the ocean. All around him the earth and heavens were one. The only way to tell that he trod upon anything were the minute ripples beneath his feet. The water was as slick and heavy as black glass, and the stars above reflected in it. Sky met water and water met sky, and it was impossible to be certain what was above him or beneath him.  
  
Believing there was no choice other than to go forward, Elrond strode on until there came a faint glow in the distance. White light rippled up from under the surface of the sea, and radiated outward as it grew in intensity. The water around him began to heave and churn, and he was drawn to the center of the disturbance.  
  
At first he took a few hesitant steps, and then he started to run. And as it was in all dreams, it seemed he got no closer no matter how he struggled. But when his psyche felt that he had fought long enough, he suddenly gained ground, finding himself upon the epicenter. There came one last blinding pulse ... and the tempest around him froze.  
  
With the echo of his heartbeat in his ears, the peredhel learned that he could step from crest to crest upon the waves; and reaching the middle of the glow, he knelt above a patch of flat water, compelled to peer down. At first there was nothing but murky blue-green irradiated by tiny auroras. But when his eyes finally focused, he feared his heart would stop from the shock. He could not believe what he beheld. Initially he thought that he was seeing himself reflected, but no. Under him, wreathed in bubbles and frozen in time; floated Elros. A dark dagger had pierced his brother's heart, and clutched in one hand was a small, golden ring.  
  
Suddenly he was frantic to get to his twin, desperate to aid him as he had been unable to before. Reaching down, Elrond managed to push his arm through the water, but it was more like he was shoving his limb through razor sharp shards of steel. Common sense told the healer that it was already too late, yet the half-elf would not be stopped … And just as his fingertips brushed hair as dark and strangely soft as his own; there came another pulse, and he realized that he had been tricked.  
  
He was now touching the ring his sibling had been holding.  
  
Before he could reel back, his vision was filled with a dark and terrible suit of armor. It was reaching out for him, grasping his wrist even as he struggled to turn back. To let go.  
  
“ _Come to me. Come. Your brother has found release, why do you not come to me? I could give you peace forever. I can make you great and terrible. I can give you the power to make concord, and none would dare resist you. I can give them back to you. Come to me.”_  
  
Gil-galad's voice echoed in his ears, distant and weak. “ _Elrond, no!_ ” Still, the peredhel could not make himself release that piece of vile gold. It was almost as if it had stuck to his fingers.  
  
No matter if he knew that fell voice was evil, that it was a lie; without Vilya, Elrond was helpless before it. He knew that what he was being promised was not possible; but his heart was so hungry for peace that it grew more and more difficult to resist. He had been about to give in when there came a flash of crimson and steel, and Maedhros was standing above him. There was blood upon his blade, just as there had been the first time the half-elf had ever met him; and looking down the healer saw that his hand had been severed.

The ring and hand fell back into the ocean, the dark armor retreated with a hiss; and despite his agony, the master of Imladris was finally able to jerk back, screaming in horror. Mouthing the words 'no' over and over again, he kept thrashing ...  
  
“Hold him!” A warmer voice filtered through into his mind from far away. A voice that was not darkness incarnate.  
  
“I have him!” Came another reply.  
  
The shadow lost its grip, the ocean drained away; and abruptly, everything was too bright.  
  
Rolling over onto his side, the peredhel was sick until he was empty; and as his eyesight finally returned, he remembered where he was. He was in Thranduil's caverns, he had been pulled downward into a vision that he had been fighting for the last three days and …  
  
“My name is Dolnith, my Lord. I am a healer, I need you to be still. You have injured yourself,” the owner of the warm voice said. She sounded exasperated, and it seemed as if she had been repeating herself for some time.  
  
Dully, Elrond peered up to her, and then down to his arm. It was as if he had plunged his forearm and wrist through broken glass. His skin was littered with cuts, and the red-haired elf maiden cradling him was trying to hold pressure on his injuries with her wadded up cloak. As his gaze traveled, he also noticed the burly sentries attempted to support his weight. The first was restraining his other arm, and the second, his legs. Both of them had bloody noses.  
  
Never had he had a vision where he had been able to struggle, or to hurt another. And the peredhel's heart was filled with fear.  
  
“Lindir!” he gasped, realization dawning. “Where is Lindir!” He tried to sit up, but nausea and weakness washed over him again, and he could no longer stay upright. **  
  
**~*~  
TBC  
~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter Sixteen: In which Elrond is attacked by the darkness. Or something.  
> Here we are again! Another chapter. Sorry I had to cut it short; but there was a whole lot happening, and my editors don't like having to give up three days of their life to edit one chapter <3 So have some things going right, and some things ... going very wrong. Giving up Vilya and leaving Imladris left Elrond in some hot water. That, and his stubborn refusal to sleep so he can avoid having visions. Don't worry, though. Everything will eventually be put right. But only after moar spiders. You know how it is.
> 
> I would also like to add that I'm really not into criticism. Some things mentioned here are head-canon and not perfectly true to Tolkien. I'm writing this story for my own entertainment. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't, well, no one is making you read it and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Beta Reader: All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
> Zeta Reader: All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond begins to fade to his grief. Who will heal the healer? A story of things lost, and found.

 

 **Chapter Seventeen:** **  
  
**“I thought I might find you here,” Glorfindel said calmly, shattering the silence of the courtyard. Erestor was busy shadowing Maedhros and the twins, which had left the golden warrior time to seek out another intruder. One who was not really an intruder at all. As a matter of fact, the other elf had not been doing such a good job of hiding; and it had been simple enough to step out from around one of the nearby pillars to take him unawares.  
  
Maglor gasped involuntarily, staring up at the seneschal from where he was still slumped to his knees. He looked divided on whether he should get to his feet and fight, or try and run. There were so many thoughts and emotions crossing that tear-stained face, and the Elda understood them all. Worse yet, he empathized with them.  
  
Slowly, carefully, Glorfindel offered his hand out; his sword untouched in its sheath.  
  
Uncertainty painted the minstrel's noble brow; but steadfastly the Lord of the Golden Flower kept his palm outstretched. The air was full of terrible tension, and the only sound between the two of them was the ragged, swallowed sobs of the son of Fëanor. Those ancient blue eyes were wide in the low light, and as startled as they were broken. It was hard to see the musician as a murderer. Especially when he looked so lost, and more like an elfling than a lord.  
  


And that was exactly what he was. Lost. A lost child. This son of the Silmaril Master had not been one for war or death. This one had been born to light and creation. To see him warped and broken to Fëanor's purposes, to see his foundations shattered by service and pride … it was a thing of great sadness. And something Glorfindel understood all too well. He barely recognized him, if he was honesty with himself.  
  
This was not as he had known the minstrel in the past. And tonight Maglor looked particularly wild and terrible. His dark, normally sleek hair was dull and full of twigs and burs. His clothing was tattered and dirty with his travails and wanderings. But what was most arresting was how thin he seemed. How stretched and full of longing.

Compassion filled the golden warrior.  
  
“I cannot … I ...” the singer started to stutter. His voice so breathy that it barely carried over the hush of cricket song and the roar of the Bruinen; and he was frozen where he knelt, trembling. He kept looking uncertainly between Glorfindel's face and that offered hand. Pride, fear, and caution warring to the point of inaction.  
  
“ Did you think that I did not know you were here? How could I miss you when you kept leaving clues? I have been questioning your presence for months. But once I realized that Lindir had help, help from another singer; I was certain it could be no other. After all, the cloak that we found wrapped around Lord Elrond was yours. I could tell by the way he found comfort in it, and would not relinquish it.” The Lord of the Golden Flower's hand moved closer yet, almost able to touch Maglor's where it had clenched into a fist. “I was not fooled then, and I am not fooled now. I know you would ask why I do not raise my hand to you. You would ask me why I offer you the same welcome as your brother. It is because I know what my lord would beg of me in his stead,” the seneschal's tone was warm and conversational, and it took any potential threat away from his words.  
  
“ I ... do not deserve ...” Maglor began; his right hand stretching towards Glorfindel's without him realizing it; unconsciously seeking absolution.  
  
“Stay. Your son would offer you a home,” the warrior encouraged gently, stooping even further to make it easier to grasp his wrist should the other let him help him up.  
  
“ But this … all of this!” The minstrel gestured around himself. “I took this very thing away from him when he was but a child.” The tips of those string-calloused fingers had brushed the golden warrior's.  
  
“ Which makes it all the more generous of a gift. Maglor. Come home. It can be put right. You cannot deny it now that you have seen your brother.” And with that, the seneschal would wait no longer. Reaching down he grasped Maglor's forearm, and pulled the trembling musician to his feet. “This city is a place of healing. You will be most welcome here, and I am determined that Imladris and her master shall win your heart. You need not wander any longer.”  
  
~*~  
  
    The day had dawned early for Elladan, and in an unexpectedly dramatic fashion. Now, as the sun climbed higher in the sky, the peredhel had more time to contemplate his choices. He had decided to take a much needed walk to get away from his brother and sister. Away from Glorfindel, Erestor, and responsibility in general. Too much had already come to pass, and overwhelmed by his fear of change and uncertainty in himself, the peredhel thought that stretching his legs might help.

Letting his heart lead him, the eldest twin found himself wandering the city outskirts and contemplating all that had happened. And he had been doing so for some time; but the afternoon was growing uncomfortably warm, and already he was beginning to sweat. Musing to himself that it was going to be a long, hot summer; he had been about to turn around and head back to his quarters ... when something caught his eye.  
  
Atop a nearby outcropping, and standing within one of the far gazebos, an elf with crimson hair was looking out over the valley. There was no other in service to his father's house with tresses of that color; and the half-elf felt something in his chest give an unexpected and pleasant lurch. When he had seen him last, the son of Fëanor had been settling into his new accommodations, and Elladan had certainly not expected to run into him out here. Or at least, that was what he told himself. He had enjoyed the short time that he and his brother had spent speaking with the warrior; and perhaps he had subconsciously been seeking him out.

It did not hurt that Maedhros was a good looking elf, either. Fëanor's heir was strong, lean, charismatic, and tall; and from his father's stories, the peredhel had expected the red-head to be imposing. But he was not. If anything he was reassuring; and Elladan was not certain exactly why he felt so drawn to him or comfortable in his presence.

Perhaps it was the way the sunlight turned that carmine hair to the color of dragon's blood and newly minted copper. Perhaps it was the intoxicating smell of fresh grass and blooming meadow washing down from the Misty Mountains. Maybe, just maybe, it even had to do with the lazy rasp of grasshoppers calling in the hot sun. But for some reason, the son of Elrond could not make himself turn and leave.  
  
Elladan was certain that Maedhros had many responsibilities, and thoughts and memories weighing upon his mind. The ancient lord had been through much; and he did not need a much younger elf ghosting his steps, following like an uninvited second shadow. Undoubtedly he desired to be left alone until his son returned. He had probably even come up here for the same reasons that Elladan had. To get away from others, and to let his thoughts wander. Still, the peredhel was mesmerized. And even as he was chiding himself, he was spotted for lingering.  
  
Caught between a strange elation, and panic; the eldest twin could feel Maedhros' intense green eyes turning upon him like physical weight. So … shyly, he waved; coming to the conclusion that if it was too late to leave, he might as well look like he intended to be there. Retrieving an apple from his pocket, (a token from his sister to remind him to eat) he approached the newcomer. Trying to keep his steps slow and graceful as he made his way up the hill.   
  
In retrospect, he was grateful that he did not trip over his own robes. He had been so distracted that he felt clumsy. And somehow, by the grace of Elbereth, the peredhel found himself within the gazebo without making a complete fool of himself. He even managed to stand calmly beside Maedhros, though he did not trust his voice at first. Instead he offered out the apple and a pocket knife he removed from a sheath within his boot.  
  
“Since you and I are both missing our afternoon meal, I thought you might want to share this with me?” Elladan offered belatedly. Mentally, he gave himself points for not stumbling over any of his words.  
  
At that, the tall warrior glanced sideways at him, looking him up and down. Which in turn colored the peredhel's ears quite nicely, though he refused to stop smiling or flinch. And when Maedhros took the apple and knife from his hands without comment, the eldest twin felt as if he had achieved something monumental.  
  
“You are so like your father, do you know that?” the warrior laughed. Once again his easy temperament took the discomfort out of the space between them. “And yet … I do see some of your uncle in you as well. The expression that graces your countenance is one that he wore more often than not.”  
  
Elladan shook his head, running his fingertips over the tops of his blushing ears; deep in curious thought. “My uncle … would you tell me more about him? I doubt I will ever meet him.”  
  
For an instant Maedhros' hands almost faltered, the knife that had been busily quartering their lunch nearly slipping from his grasp. But he recovered quickly; and offering out the first slice to his generous host, he gave him a wink. “I can think of nothing I would like more, on such a fine afternoon.” The warrior gave Elladan a roguish smile. “And I might even have a story or two to tell you about your father. One sibling was never without the other, you see. Much like you and Elrohir.”

Elladan took that moment to contemplate how wrong he had been. And he was grateful that he was. He had misjudged the other elf yet again. And despite the new and uncomfortable mantle of leadership upon his shoulders, the peredhel soon found himself laughing joyously. He could not recall a time since his mother had passed that he had felt this content.  
  
Nor had he had such fabulous blackmail material against his father.

Not even Glorfindel's tales could match Maedhros'.  
  
~*~  
  
    “ I remember you. And more than anything about that terrible day, I recall your voice. It was light in the darkness. I am glad that you have decided to join us,” Elrohir announced, sinking calmly into the water of the bathhouse beside a confused Maglor.  
  
Erestor had said that their newest guest required a friend, and then left the youngest twin to attend to him. After that, the councilor had strode off, murmuring something about 'another pressing matter to take care of’. Elrohir did not think that was the case, not in the slightest; and he still did not understand why he was sitting in the baths beside an elf millennia older than himself. But joining Maglor had seemed like the best idea, and the wanderer _was_ upset. He was still visibly trembling, and his tears left fresh, wet trails down his pale face.  
  
Elrohir would not abandon anyone, family nor stranger, in such terrible spirits. It was not in his nature.  
  
Within the city of Imladris, joining another elf in the communal bath, friend, family, or outsider, was considered appropriate bonding. And unlike dwarves, who were very particular about who was allowed to touch their hair and beards, the Ñoldor enjoyed communal grooming. Elrohir was hoping to reach out in that manner. For even if the other did not speak to him, could not voice his burdens; touch could go a long way toward healing. And despite the fact that trying to get the taciturn son of Fëanor to speak to him was like pulling teeth, the peredhel loved the challenge.  
  
Besides, the last thing the Elrohir wanted was for someone so beloved to his father to feel alone within the walls of Imladris. This was a place of healing, and like it or not, mending was in the Elrohir's blood. He could not stop what came naturally to him, even if he went about caring for others differently than his sire and brother. “You do have a lovely voice; the legends do not lie. And Lindir truly enjoyed singing with you. Perhaps when Adar returns you would grace us with a ballad once more?” he tried again.  
  
The minstrel still would not respond to, or look at him; but Elrohir was not upset by this. Quite the opposite; he understood the others' reticence, and was determined to be all the friendlier whether Maglor could react or not.  Of course, the peredhel tried a few other small gestures first, but all of those were seemingly rejected, too. That was, until he dared to reached over and pulled free the towel that was wrapping the singer's freshly washed hair.

When inky strands tumbled loose, straggling past blue eyes that were wide with surprise, Elrohir helpfully held up a comb. “Welcome back,” he teased as their gazes finally met, and the other gave a start; perhaps finally realizing where he was. “It will be easier if I help you untangle your hair. Rest while I work out the knots?”  
  
“You do not hate me?” Maglor replied belatedly; sounding stoic, raw, and astonished.  
  
The question was almost incongruous with the situation, but Elrohir followed the emotional logic quickly enough. “You made one of the worst days of my life better with your song. Of course I do not hate you, how could I? A being's past is just that. In the past. Personally, I am glad you were here for Adar; and for us, and Lindir, too. I do not know you yet. But I should like to. My father loves you deeply and only speaks highly of you. And while I have so many questions for you and would like nothing more than to hear your tales ... I will wait.” Erestor had explained that Glorfindel had found the singer on his knees, mourning because he could not face his brother. “For you need to see Maedhros,” he continued. “Do not look at me so, you need him. I know you do. I would never have survived as long as you have without my brother. I know your regret feels unending, but time can replace it with love. ”  
  
“ I … I cannot go to him. I failed him and ...”  
  
“ The only way you will fail him is if you do not go to him now. My father says that you and Maedhros were very close. That he and Elros relied on you both for your strength and your advice. So prove him right. You and your brother _are_ one heart. You do love each other. And neither of you are bound by an oath anymore. No, not even you. Do not shake your head at me. You serve my father now, and you have been accepted into his house. No other oath will hold you again. That is, unless you freely choose to make it. Now come, let me untangle this mess.”  
  
After that, Maglor stayed silent. But the way Elrohir understood it, that was because the other had a great deal to think about. The peredhel was not offended, and he began in earnest on the knots he found in the minstrel's hair.  
  
~*~  
  
    Lindir leaned over to shoo a butterfly away from the nearest ink well. The tiny blue creature fluttered angrily at him before making its way off into the woods. Hopefully to drink from something that would not make it sick.

The afternoon had been a pleasant one, but the singer could not shake the unease in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps it had been the recent fighting. Perhaps it had been the violent spider attack. He might even have been picking up on the nervous energy of the elves under his tutelage. But one thing was certain, he was getting jumpier by the minute.  
  
Legolas and Beriadan were nearby, standing shoulder to shoulder and looking protectively out over the forest. The two elves had found a patch of warm sunlight for the minstrels to practice within, and the looks on musicians' faces had made the long walk well worth it. There had been so much singing and laughter. One of the older singers had even taken his boots off so that he could enjoy the grass against his bare feet.  
  
 _How long had it been?_ Lindir wondered. _Since they had been able to look up through the branches of the trees and see the sky? The stars?_ He had been working closely with them, teaching them a few of the melodies from Imladris that they might not have known. In turn, notes had been exchanged; and the minstrel had found himself with several parchments full of songs that he had never heard before. He had also not known there were major difference in beat, tempo, and rhyme between some Ñoldor and the Sindar verses. There were even several songs sung by the Silvan that he knew the words for, but found them to be set to another rhythm altogether. It was interesting, and he looked forward to sharing his new-found knowledge with Erestor when he returned home.   
  
Lindir was excited to learn new things, and always there had been a thirst within him for a different way to look at music. That was why he could not comprehend his apprehension. Nothing bad had happened. The Silvan had given him a tour of some of the nearer paths, sculptures, and old hunting grounds. And the bards that had known the tales of the forest had been more than glad to tell them to an eager ambassador as they made their way. Then the band of minstrels had settled in to enjoy a meal and fresh, clean spring water; while two of the best hunters in the forest kept watch. They had been safe. They _were_ safe, as far as Lindir knew. And still … he could not quite believe it to be so.  
  
He had just forced himself to cap his ink, and had been placing a scroll back into the pack he had been loaned, when he felt it. The sensation was like a thunderstorm coming swiftly down from the mountains; and the air pressure changed. Swallowing nervously, Lindir did his best to pop his ears, for he was hearing things. Strange things. Fast … pattering footsteps.  
  
“Prince, Prince Legolas?” the singer called quietly; standing up so quickly the scroll balanced on his knee fell to the grass, forgotten. “I knew it … I _knew_ it ...” he muttered beneath his breath.  
  
One of the younger elves had paused while reaching for his quill, and his friend nearby broke a string on his harp as he glanced up. The echoing 'twang' was eerie in the glade, and a wave of cold dread swept into the alcove. Then, heavy clouds began to pass over the sun; and a neck-ruffling smell, metallic and thick, overcame them all. One that Lindir recognized from the attacks previously. Spiders.  
  
The glade was plunged into darkness.  
  
Beriadan's head snapped up, and his hand instantly went to his sword; and Legolas put his back to his lover's, nocking an arrow to his bow.  
  
“ To arms!” Beriadan called.  
  
“ _What_ arms?!” Lindir shot back, drawing his borrowed dagger as he looked around to the panicked minstrels around him. Thankfully, he had remembered to bring his weapon with him this time. (He was now determined to carry it regardless of what anyone thought of him for it. So far, no one had said a word nor pushed him on the matter.)  
  
“He has a point,” Legolas replied apologetically to the captain.  
  
These were artists, not warriors.  
  
~*~  
  
    Elrond was running flat out. And Elrond Peredhel did not run. Ever.  
  
Somewhere behind him a distraught healer was calling for him to return so that she could finish bandaging his arm, but he was not dissuaded. Naked blade in hand, and clad only in his ambassadorial robes, the Lord of Imladris sprinted through Thranduil's Halls; trailing blood from his injuries. He did not ask for leave, and he did not call to the guards. The look on his face insured that any near him that could take up their own weapons, did so. And a few even fell into step behind him.  
  
If there was one thing elves shared, especially Thranduil's people, it was an understanding of danger and a desire to protect. The Silvan had come to respect Elrond and Lindir. They had accepted them as their own, and when there was danger, they would face it together.  
  
The most recent vision, the one that had spurred Elrond into frantic action … It had taken the peredhel on the heels of his previous, more disastrous one. And as a puzzled and worried Dolnith had been wrapping his wounded arm, too.  
  
In the master healer's mind, this second occurrence had left no doubt that the coming of the necromancer and the spiders was tied together. That the necromancer was _commanding_ the spiders. Which made a great many other things clear, too. But there was no time to think further, now was a time for action.  He had seen it. Lindir was in danger! He would lose the other before they even had a chance to _be_ if he did not run for all he was worth.

Redoubling his efforts, Elrond found that he barely felt his hurts. There was no time for them, either. Not when he needed to locate his beloved. Silently, he swore that what had come to pass with Celebrían would never happen again. Not while he still had breath in his body. He had always been afraid that interfering with what he beheld could make an outcome even worse than the horrors in his visions. But right now he dared destiny to try him; and summoning all the rage he felt at the Valar and fate, he pressed on.  
  
    The guards opened the gates for him as he came barreling through them, and the healer felt no small amount of satisfaction when he realized that some of Greenwood’s defenders were still shadowing him. Dashing out into the middle of the bridge that spanned the entrance to the caverns, Elrond slid to a stop. His chest was heaving as he looked out over the forest, trying to find anything that looked familiar from his recent vision.  
  
“Where? Where is the danger?” a tall Sinda warrior to his right asked. He had hair the color of freshly hammered bronze, and his green eyes were intently taking in Elrond's every motion. Three other elves were with him; and they, too, were looking to the Lord of Imladris for guidance.

Pleading with his senses, the half-elf finally discerned it. A fall of a leaf from a nearby tree. The flash of a butterfly's wing ... “This way,” he rasped; plunging headlong into the forest. He would not let Lindir fall. Never again would he let fate take one he loved from him.

Not when he could foresee it and put a stop to it.

~*~  
  
    Lindir was using a hewn tree branch like a saber. Standing over the youngest minstrel of the group where he had fallen, the attendant would not give ground. One of the elder female singers was kneeling beside them both, her hands wrapped tightly around a snapped spider mandible where it pierced her fellow musician's chest.  
  
“Rostlas, you must be still!” she gasped.  
  
The battle had been upon them quickly. There had been no time. Everything the party had owned had been used as a weapon, including both harps. Rostlas had even been stabbing his assailant in (all eight) of its eyes with his quill as he had gone down. The elves were exhausting their supply of things to defend themselves with … and worse yet, they were surrounded. None would risk leading the spiders back to the caverns. That, and they dared not show their backs to their attackers.  
  
    Legolas and Beriadan were fighting bravely, but they were also out of arrows. They had been reduced to dodging and feinting at the enemy to push them back; and the duo dared not try to regain their projectiles. They would have to leave the group of minstrel's completely defenseless to do so. The giant arachnids moved quickly. Too quickly for such a task to be feasible.  
  
“I wish I knew why they were doing this. I do,” Beriadan growled loudly to Legolas.  
  
“They are evil?” Legolas hypothesized, slicing off the tip of a spider leg as it slashed past his face.  
  
“They are _hungry_. But not hungry enough to kill. What animal in this land does that? It makes no-unfh-sense!” The captain grit out; managing to shove his sword through a spider's abdomen, spilling its innards and snuffing its life.  
  
    “He is bleeding too much. Please. You have to help me,”  the elf-maiden pleaded with Lindir under the noise and shouting of combat. “Your master … he is a healer. Please tell me how to stop the blood!” she begged the singer.  
  
Who was busy slapping a spider across the rump with his stick-sword, sending it tumbling.  
  
“I do not know. I … I am not that sort of a healer!” Lindir gasped. He was numb with fear, and his arms ached, reverberating from the impact of branch hitting hard exoskeleton. He could barely think, but desperation had his mind turning.  
  
“Please!” she begged, as Rostlas convulsed under her hands.  
  
It was then that an idea came to the minstrel. It was a theory, just a theory that he had read about once. Never had he … “My pack. Grab my pack. In it is a vial of moon ink.”  
  
“Ithildin?”  
  
“Yes. Open the vial and pour it directly into the wound around the fang, and try to keep him still. It burns like fire in an open cut or scratch. I do not know. It may kill him faster than the spider. But I have heard it can slow bleeding. It is not intended for this purpose but ...”  
  
“Consider it done,” the maiden said, teeth grit determinedly.  
  
~*~  
  
    The smell was what let Elrond know he had found Lindir and the party of elves he had accompanied. Or more aptly, the reek of spiders and the shout of combat. Heart beating in his throat, the peredhel cleared a shrub, ran up the side of a tree, and then leaped over a gully; bursting into the clearing before him. As he landed, the dozens of warriors and hunters that had joined him were firing before their feet even hit the ground again. Spiders went down right and left; and amidst the chaos the peredhel searched for his mate.  
  
When at last he beheld him, he could not help gasping in admiration and fear.  
  
Lindir was kneeling, holding up the battered pillar of a harp like a shield as a spider snapped in his face. The faithful minstrel was keeping the creature away from another elf who had fallen, pierced through the chest. Beside his attendant an exhausted looking *elleth was trying to keep her stricken charge from moving.  
  
Around them, there was a strange glow on the ground. The attacking arachnid seemed loathe to have the slick substance touch its toes; yet that and Lindir's efforts did not seem to be discouraging its advance. Which was probably why the elf-maiden holding pressure on her friend's wounds let go long enough to throw the remainder of the vial into the spider's eyes.

Screeching, the monstrosity streaked away to meet its end on Beriadan's blade.  
  
Ithildin. Who had thought to use Ithildin?  
  
Elrond might have been more impressed, but he refused to let himself be distracted. For just as it had been in his vision, a second beast was now creeping up behind Lindir. None saw it, for it lurked in the shadows. But Elrond did. And that was all that mattered.  
  
Stepping out of the way of an arrow-peppered spider sliding to a deceased halt; the peredhel let loose a war cry. And charging directly for Lindir, he held his sword at the ready.  
  
Just as his concealed assailant lunged, the musician turned to look up and over his shoulder; and Elrond skidded to a halt before him. Caught mid-leap, front legs still raised, the creature behind Lindir went limp; Elrond's sword piercing its head between its front fangs. Venom dripped down the length of the master-healer's blade, and the peredhel let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding.  
  
The arachnid had died frozen, its entire body so tense that Elrond could hold it upright. And for the longest time he did just that, waiting for a horrified and surprised Lindir to take a scuttling step out from under its shadow. Only when his beloved had made his way to his side, and the elf-maiden had pulled her friend to safety, did he let the spider drop from his sword with a heavy thump.  
  
“My Lord ...” the singer gasped, still trembling. “... what are you ...” the flustered bard tried again, then gave up and fell silent; letting his question go. There were no words or explanation in any language adequate for this situation. All he knew was that he had never been more glad to see his master.

Lindir was still in shock as Elrond turned him to face him again; patting his beloved down as he searched him for injuries, brow furrowed with worry. “I could have lost you. I will not! I will never again ...” the peredhel trailed off fiercely. And ignoring the din around them, the Lord of Imladris then pulled his beloved into his arms with a desperate will; unable to consider anything else other than his lover's safety.  
  
And kissed the singer so soundly that neither could think.  
  
Not even when the glade around him calmed, and whoops and cheers of victory split the air, did Elrond let his lover go.  
  
And the minstrel did not seem to want to be anywhere else, either. Even when the kiss broke, the blushing musician could only slump to his master's shoulder, crying in relief. “I love you ... And I _hate_ spiders!” he whimpered.  
  
“I think that is understandable,” the peredhel replied reasonably.  
  
Around them there were a few claps and whistles; the Silvan appreciating the dedication of two hearts, and the success of the rescue mission that had been undertaken.  
  
“I want to go home ...” Lindir whispered thickly, tone woeful.  
  
And once again, Elrond couldn't really blame his lover.  
  
~*~  
TBC  
~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Elleth: A female elf. A Sindarized form the Exiled Noldor used for themselves.  http://www.elfdict.com/translate.php?term=elleth&ajax=false
> 
> A/N: Don't worry about our friend Rostlas rolling around on the ground. Elrond will help him as soon as they round up the wounded and get everyone to safety. (And sorry, not sorry, for a little Elladan, Elrohir, Maglor, and Maedhros time :D) Lindir would also like me to tell you that Elrond is in a lot of trouble with him; and he plans to tell him so very firmly in the next chapter. ^_^ 
> 
> I would like to add that I'm really not into criticism. Some things mentioned here are head-canon and not perfectly true to Tolkien. I'm writing this story for my own entertainment. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't, well, no one is making you read it and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Beta Credit: All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
> Zeta Reader: All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond begins to fade to his grief. Who will heal the healer? A story of things lost, and found.

 

 **Chapter Eighteen:**  
  
   Maglor stood stock still, seemingly frozen to the patch of grass he stood upon. Uncertain blue eyes roamed the gardens, looking anywhere but at Maedhros. His heart was beating fast, and his palms sweated. He had never forgotten the pain of touching the Silmaril, nor the horrible tidal wave of … betrayal he had experienced after casting it into the sea. That sense of unworthiness still plagued him to this hour.  
  
Biting his lip to silence himself, the minstrel bowed before his brother; holding in a groan at the ache of failure in his chest. He had broken his vow. To his father. To his kin, and worst of all, to his siblings who had suffered and fallen beside him. His family had lost so much more than jewels.  
  
Maglor's acts alone would have been sufficient to destroy Arda, dooming her long before their people had landed upon her shores. It had been pure folly, following a dark deed with a darker one. The singer knew that if their oath had been a just one, his sire would have succeeded. That all of their line would have been blessed for their travails. But only evil had followed in Fëanor's wake. The darkness they had sworn to extinguish had made fools of them all; bending them to its will until they were more servants of Morgoth than Sauron himself.  
  
The minstrel wanted to speak, but he could not. He felt as if all the breath had left his lungs, and that his throat had closed upon itself. His mouth was dry, and he was shaking like a leaf in winter wind. He longed to hold his brother, to make things right. Instead he stood there uncertainly, as seemed to be his lot in life. Maedhros was the one who acted, usually rashly, and Maglor the one who thought himself in circles.  
  
~*~  
  
    It was Maedhros who had to move first, as it always had been between them. The red-haired warrior took a step closer, tilting his head to one side as he tried to encourage his brother to make eye contact. He knew how his younger sibling could be, dissociating when experiencing uncertainty or fear. And Maedhros had no doubt that had been the case since the two of them had parted ways. For himself, his struggles had come to an end ages ago; and understanding had begun. Maglor had been left behind to stagnate for centuries, wandering and broken in the twilight.  
  
“Brother, it is good to see you,” Maedhros began, his tone welcoming. Tapping his open hand over his heart, he confidently closed the distance between them. Yet when he reached out, Maglor staggered back. Blue eyes that were dark with fear finally flicked to brilliant green; and the elder brother was shocked at the pain, terror, and abandonment he found within their depths. Abandonment. That emotion had been a constant companion throughout the brothers' travels. To make matters worse, Maedhros had been a coward. Unable to bear the crushing weight of suffering, he had left Maglor to face the very same thing, alone. And through who knew how many ages. To say he had done him a wrong was not the half of it.  
  
“Do not ...” Maglor rasped at last, standing doubled over as if he had been struck. “Do not call me brother.”  
  
Those words hit the warrior like a fist, but when his sibling's knees buckled, he still rushed to catch him. And even as the minstrel tried to pull away, muttering and struggling, Maedhros did not let go. He held on tightly; embracing his brother until furious, half-formed words had become sobs, and uncertain arms had come around him in relief. Until they were united again as they always should have been.

And when Maglor's hands fisted into his hair as he sobbed out his grief and pain, Maedhros was steadfast. “Please try to find it in your heart to forgive me. For that is what I bring to you. Forgiveness. I was wrong about so many things, Brother mine. And I have come back to make it right, if I may. So please do not let me go. Wander no more, for I am real, and you are home. The Valar absolve; we are finally free, and fates may yet be changed for the better. It is no matter, all that happened in the past.”  
  
“How?” Maglor choked out. “How can that be?!” His previous words were not forgotten. But tremulous hope was beginning to overwhelm anger—even though it had been centuries since the wanderer had experienced any promise for himself.  
  
“I have seen and experienced it with my own eyes and heart. And you can, too. But first you must open yourself to the light again. You must believe and feel, and let others love you. We are both needed here in Arda, and can fight for the Free Peoples. Fight with them so that they can stay free. For you and I both know what it is like to be bound, imprisoned, and lost. We are not perfect, and we are not expected to be. For we are no longer our father's sons. I am Maedhros. You are Maglor. A warrior and a minstrel. Not the destined offspring of Fëanor.”  
  
And when Maglor sat back, those dark, damp lashed and red-rimmed eyes meeting his sibling's, the expression upon his face was fragile. The pain and hopelessness of so many years had taken on an edge of anticipation; and brittle hope replaced fear with yearning.  
  
“May I call you brother again?” Maedhros asked as the tempest between them calmed, the hint of a smirk turning up the corner of his mouth. Maglor was the one to brood long, and suffer short outbursts that quickly took an upswing. And the warrior was hoping he was right about that, even as he got a slow, unsteady nod in reply.  
  
“You may ... but I still cannot believe it. That the Valar have not abandoned us,” Maglor whispered.  
  
“I promise you they have not. Not as we once thought. In many ways, they are here now. The eagles still hear and see all, you know,” the warrior teased, using his tunic sleeve to wipe away tears. No, it was not fair for his brother to have to hurt or cry. But he was glad that he still could. And that this time he did not have to weep alone. “But take your time. Take all that you need. I will stand here beside you, and I shall not leave again. You have my word. You and our son, both.”  
  
~*~  
  
    Lindir was furious. Elrond had the good grace to look ashamed of himself. And Dolnith was busying herself bandaging the peredhel's arm (again). The two lovers sat across from each other on cots in the healer's quarters. The irate minstrel was staring his lord down, and Elrond would still not meet his gaze. In the distance, Thranduil could be heard; and from the sound of it he was just outside the doors giving a dressing down. To his son, and to Beriadan.  
  
“You undermined my will in front of our people. You are my son. I expect better from you, and you must set a proper example. This is why I do not relax my authority often, for when I do you are sure to take a mile when I give you an inch.”  
  
“My Lord, it was my fault. I am guilty of treason, not Leg— ”  
  
“— Silence. Hold your tongue. My word is law. I said that none come nor go without my permission. Did you ask it? No!”  
  
Elrond flinched at the tone of Thranduil's voice before it dropped to a less audible whisper; as did Dolnith. Lindir and the musicians' trip out into the forest had not been wise. And the outcome had been moderately painful. Thankfully, it had not been lethal.  
  
Beside them, Rostlas was sleeping deeply while two of Greenwood's master-healers tended to his hurts. He would mend, but he was deeply unconscious from the blood loss. Elrond's expertise was not needed, for the spider bite had been easily tackled by the herbalists once the Ithildin had worked its magic. There would be some residual effects, and the poison would take time to leave the young singer's system; but all in all he would recover.  
  
Of course, that meant that Elrond had no excuse to avoid his beloved until he calmed. Which the peredhel suspected would not be any time soon. And when Dolnith completed her task—expediently excusing herself—Lindir was quick to round on him.  
  
“How did it happen?” the singer demanded, honey brown eyes glittering with badger-like intensity.  
  
“I had a vision, and ended up coming too close to the darkness within this realm,” Elrond said lamely, knowing the truth would do anything but make the situation better. Yet telling it all the same.  
  
“And I suppose that is because you are not sleeping or eating properly! You came here to strengthen yourself, not perish. You promised your children you would return. If they find out that you are avoiding sleep, and risking your safety while using me as an excuse to do so? First of all it would be a poor example. Second of all, I could never live with myself. I could never bear the shame! You know your visions become stronger, more dangerous, and less controlled when you do not rest. Are you still seeking to end your own life? Need I half-drown you in a river to change your mind once more? No! Do not look at me like that. If I am your equal, then I have held my tongue _enough_!” The last word was emphasized loud enough to turn heads. Well, that and the singer had rather angrily leaped to his feet.  
  
Taking a shuddering breath, Lindir realized he was making a spectacle of himself and tried to check his temper. After all, the two of them were in a public place. So he stood there for a moment, taking stock of his emotions. In any other situation he would have been horrified with someone speaking to his master in such a manner. Especially when he firmly believed himself at fault, too; for going with the party and indirectly encouraging Legolas. But he also knew that he could no longer hold back. He was afraid to lose his beloved! … What if the evil within the forest had taken a weakened Elrond, seduced him and drawn him in?

The enemy was no fool. The dark things of Arda all served Sauron; as Sauron did Morgoth. And all those two … malignancies had ever desired was power. They would promise one all the sweet things in the world to achieve it, too. They had not know that Elrond chose not to carry Vilya with him. They did now. They could also be certain that the peredhel was away from Imladris, and … oh, it was not a good thing. What if the enemy made their move upon the Last Homely House? Elladan bore Vilya, and would surely surprise them with its powers. But such a battle would be a test of the city, and Elrond's inexperienced children. That much was certain.  
  
That, and today's happenings were much bigger than a crisis for the Greenwood. Especially after the spiders. Were they eyes and ears for the shadows as well? The singer did not know, and was no councilor; but he had been quick to realized that he was not the only one who had made a grave error. Thankfully, Thranduil did not seem to feel it had been an emissary of Imladris who had been the one to incite trouble. In that, he and Elrond were lucky. Rivendell needed no more turmoil upon her doorstep.   
  
The whole situation was frustrating, for no matter what they did, it seemed that evil would win ...  
  
“Lindir?” Elrond interrupted gently, aware that his lover's rant had suddenly fallen to internalized silence. And the master healer looked more concerned than hurt.  
  
Tears misted the minstrel’s eyes as he reached out to touch Elrond’s bandages in response. The peredhel had still not said a word in his defense, but he did stand and wrap his beloved in a careful embrace. At that, Lindir's anger melted away into fear, and it was as he curled closer that he fully understood what had come to pass. The vision had not only wounded. It had left a darkness and fear in its wake that was awfully familiar. One that made him swallow hard. “Your arm,” he choked out. “You are hurt. I cannot bear to see you hurt.”  
  
“I am sorry. I will take more care,” Elrond acquiesced, not knowing what to say when the singer was so upset.  
  
“I do not know if you could ever take enough to satisfy me, forgive me,” Lindir whispered, cooling just as quickly as he had burned. There was a long pause between them, and it only ended when the musician pushed back in his lover's arms, looking up to Elrond with wet, brown eyes.  
  
“What is it?” the peredhel asked, keeping his voice low and soothing. He meant more than the show of temper from his attendant. Something was undeniably different between them compared to last night.  
  
“The feeling remaining upon your skin ... it was not there before. And it reminds me of Annatar,” Lindir replied hesitantly, expression far away. “When he came to Eregion, I knew there was something wrong. There was a way about him that I did not trust. It is not that I do not have faith in you, it is as if he found a way to touch you, to mark you. As if his darkness lies within the cuts on your arm. I do not wish to alarm you, but I do believe your wounds are something we should know the full extent of.”  
  
    The smell of Athelas was heavy in the air, but it did nothing to drive away Elrond's increasing fear. And the half-elf had gone very still, listening. For he knew little about his faithful minstrel's past. Lindir did not speak of such things, and never had. But for him to confirm his master's worries meant that it was now time to do so. If the singer had lived within Beleriand, as it had been assumed, and he had met Annatar … that meant that, more than likely, he was right. And his upset about the situation had not been out of proportion at all. Quite the opposite, in fact.  
  
“Come. Come with me. We have much to discuss, and we cannot do it here,” the peredhel whispered, kissing the singer's temple before taking his string-calloused hand in his bandaged one. Gently, Lindir clasped his hand in return.

~*~  
  
   “Do you love him?” Maedhros asked, green eyes following Maglor's with a keen interest.

Not far away, Elrohir was busily marking and signing a document within the commons, his lunch ignored. He had his dark hair swept up into a multitude of adorned braids, and was wearing a brilliant blue tunic that he cut a dashing figure in. He was handsome like his father, but fairer of face. And that was long before one watched his brow furrow in deep thought, searching for some sort of wording or answer. He was nothing short of breathtaking, and the warrior could see why his sibling might have taken a fancy.  
  
“I beg your pardon?” Maglor replied, nearly dropping the fork he had been about to take a bite of salad from.  
  
“I asked if you love him,” Maedhros repeated. “The way you gaze at him. Your entire expression goes soft. Are you thinking of our son, or do you truly see him?”  
  
Maglor bristled— but not for long—and his countenance quickly became vulnerable as he looked down to his plate. “I would appreciate it if you did not say such things,” the minstrel grumbled, filling his mouth in an attempt to keep his brother from asking him anything further.  
  
“When did you first meet him?”  
  
“I said I do not want to talk about it,” Maglor snapped around his greens.  
  
“Touchy, I was just … well I have not spent much time with them. I wondered if you knew what they were like. They are our grandsons of sorts, and I am merely curious. I meant no harm. I have missed out on much, you see.”  
  
Maglor did not look impressed nor terribly swayed, but he did finish chewing his bite. Swallowing _—_ and taking a cool sip of white wine to wash strawberry and dandelion leaves down _—_ he shook his head; yielding with a sigh. He could deny his brother nothing. He never could, and that was what the red-head was counting on. Cursing himself, he thought about where to start while choosing to ignore the bit about being in love with Elrohir.  
  
“'Twas the day that Lindir, our son's faithful attendant, finally lost his temper. Much had gone on that afternoon, and Imladris was abuzz with rumor. I had made my way in with some of the local merchants, determined to check on Elrond; and none noticed me, so I stayed. I did not find our son, but I did witness a rather spectacular fight between our lovely seneschal,” the singer paused to bow his head toward Glorfindel, who was watching he and Maedhros like a hawk from a nearby bench. “And Lindir. At the end of it all, Lindir panicked, tried to get away from the conflict, and jumped off of a balcony to escape. He broke his ankle in the leap, then bolted off into the 'Shaws without a thought in his head. Elrohir had been hurrying after him, searching for him. That was when I first saw one of the twins. I was surprised, I can tell you that much.”  
  
Maglor left off the part about the way his heart had leaped in his chest. No one needed to know that.  
  
“I take it that it was a tense time?” Maedhros drawled, expression much keener than his reply. He knew his son had been in dire straights, but not exactly why. Still, he had sworn to come to his side; and he had yet to regret that decision.  
  
“You do not even know the half of what you missed,” Maglor sighed.  
  
“But I should like to,” Maedhros' smirk became almost wolfish.  
  
“Undoubtedly, you would,” Maglor snorted.  
  
“But there is a price?”  
  
“There is always a price.”  
  
“How much?”  
  
“Half of your tea cakes?”  
  
“Done.”  
  
~*~  
  
    The halls had been empty all the way to the quarters that Elrond and Lindir shared. The two ambassadors had met none on their path, and a sort of worried hush had fallen over the already oppressive caverns. It was beyond distressing, the feeling of lost ground, and Lindir had not spoken on the way. Then again, neither had Elrond.  
  
The peredhel had no more than locked the door behind them when Lindir toed off his boots and collapsed to the edge of the bed; holding his arms out to his lord who sank into them gratefully.  
  
The singer had never allowed this sort of closeness before, not from anyone. And yet it now seemed perfectly natural. He knew what his father would say if he could see them like this. He knew what some in Imladris would say, too. That this was a play for power. But that was not like him. It never had been. Even at the Havens of Sirion, Lindir could have had more status than he did. Yet he had not chased after the opportunity. Always, he had stayed a simple minstrel ... because of Elrond. At times it was hard to see his lord as anything but a wide-eyed, frightened elfling. And that was part of what had influenced the the bigger decisions the musician had made in his life.  
  
It was undeniable, though. Something had changed inside him that fateful night long ago—when Maedhros and Maglor had spirited Elrond and his brother away— and he had not been the same since.

Through loss the minstrel had come to understand love; and throughout his long life it was, perhaps, the only thing that had not been taken from him. So he did not intend to let it go anytime soon. No, not even if the darkness … if Annatar … took over. Considering that thought, Lindir took Elrond's injured limb and brought the bandage to his lips, kissing it tenderly as if such a gesture could mend the hurt beneath it. His care did not fail to bring a smile to his beloved's lips, nor the stroke of strong fingers through his chestnut hair. And he tried to breathe. To be. To not fear. He would not lose his master again. He would not let him down. He would face the darkness here (and fight it to the death if necessary) to keep any further harm from coming to Elrond, or anyone else he had grown to respect within Thranduil's Caverns.

It was true that evil had taken a step forward, and Thranduil and his people a step back. But that would not be so for long. There had also been victory. Even Lindir had grown; for not once during the day had he thought of the lady, his nightmares, or how unworthy he was to take Celebrían's place. He had been strong enough to stand up to Elrond. And maybe it was easier to be optimistic in his lord's arms, but then again, he could not find fault in such a thing. No matter what his father, or his past, might try to dictate to him.  
  
“Do not think so hard. I promise that I will do my best to rest and eat more. You have my word. I do not wish to incur your wrath, nor experience anything like what happened today, again,” Elrond interrupted with an exhausted chuckle.  
  
“You admit it, then?” Lindir asked, tone just slightly petulant as he was jolted from his thoughts.  
  
“I admit it. I am afraid of my dreams. I have been since I was an elfling. I once went so long without sleeping that I began to hallucinate. I gave Maedhros a very difficult time, I assure you. And yes, I am aware that he was not the only one I made life miserable for.” The peredhel apologetically kissed his beloved's temple, drawing a smile from the minstrel before he could stop himself.  
  
“Are you afraid to sleep now?” Lindir asked, smile fading as quickly as it had come.  
  
“Of course I am. It was ... it was terrible. I have seen so many dark things, but somehow this vision was the worst yet.”  
  
“Did it explain anything, anything at all?” Lindir normally did not pry into his master's affairs, thinking his advice unmerited. But in this, he felt he might have some knowledge he could lend.  
  
“I saw Elros. I saw a ring—not Vilya— but a simple golden ring. I know what it is, what it was for. Yet I have no idea why I dreamed of my dead brother clutching it.”  
  
Lindir winced, knowing how sensitive that topic was for Elrond. “If that is the case, if it was the One Ring, then that means that— ”  
  
“— It means that the necromancer within these bounds is Sauron himself. He is the Dark Lord. He has entrenched himself here, and he hopes to spread out. Thranduil is right to fear. I knew there was evil that spilled over this way, but Sauron, Annatar … he is using the very shield the elves have made of the Greenwood into a wall to hide behind. It is all quite clever, his lurking in plain sight. And I am not surprised.” The peredhel shook his head.  
  
“Nor am I. His lies are unrivaled. I remember them well,” Lindir answered. “So the spiders are here because ...”  
  
“Because the necromancer is here. They are drawn to him. They found their way because of him. They eat and expand their territory, and in turn he learns what they know. We can only blame Ungoliant for so much.” Elrond was frowning, his arm aching badly.  
  
“It also means, now that he has touched you, he has marked you. That wound will not heal until we can drive his poison from it. Is that not true?” Lindir asked worriedly, reaching up to stroke Elrond's bandages in acknowledgment of the pain.  
  
“Most likely, yes,” Elrond replied, sounding more vulnerable than he meant to.  
  
“You do not have to put up a front of bravery, nor hide your hurt, my Lord. No one could in this situation. I am a mere musician, and even I am aware of what could happen. But please believe that I will help you find a way to mend what has come to pass. And if I cannot ...” The singer swallowed hard as he trailed off, the words too painful to speak. Thankfully, Elrond did not make him say them.  
  
“If not, you will be with me until the end. That is all that I need to hear,” the peredhel replied.  
  
“And that is all I will ever remind you of. Come now, rest would do us both some good. You are overdue. Perhaps, there is a way I could make things more pleasant?” the singer enticed; for once knowing full well what he was offering.  
  
Elrond blinked in surprise at that, raising an eyebrow at the implication. It was beyond bravery to face down so much uncertainty, and it was telling of how much Lindir had grown. Then, to offer to comfort in such a way ...  
  
The minstrel frowned. “I know I am flirting with you. I am asking you to bring us pleasure so that we might sleep deeply. Or I could try my hand, though you know I am not so experienced.” Lindir's cheeks were burning with embarrassment and desire as his worried brown eyes met stormy gray.  
  
“I can think of more unpleasant ways to exhaust the remains of a day,” Elrond replied fondly, just before leaning in and stealing his lover's breath with the fiercest and hungriest of kisses.  
  
The truth was the truth. And there was a surprising amount of relief in knowing it, no matter how vile it was.

~*~  
  
    “I do not like the way he watches him,” Erestor said, reclining back against the couch arm, cup of tea in hand. Glorfindel sat at the foot of the sofa, patiently listening as he cradled his own mug. The day was over, long though it had been. All things were settled, and Imladris was safe. As a matter of fact, even safer than she had been the day before. Maglor and Maedhros were powerful warriors, and would be of great value should any trouble arise in Elrond's absence.  
  
And the warrior felt more strongly about that possibility by the day, though he would say nothing of it. Instead he had increased patrols around the bridges and the 'dell, and made sure that guards had shorter shifts. Inattention had been a problem among elvish armies in the past, and he would see to it that the mistake was not repeated here. He could not be engaged to a scholar and consider himself not warned.  
“Maglor is disinclined to hurt anyone. It is harmless. Let fate dictate, it is not our place.”  
  
“What if it is merely misplaced feelings for Lord Elrond. What then? What if he breaks Elrohir's heart,” Erestor persisted.  
  
“He will not do so. And if he does, then I have no doubt it shall be taken care of in its own way,” Glorfindel said firmly.  
  
“You mean that Elrond will throw him into the Bruinen, and let fate decide?” Erestor chuckled.  
  
“I do not think he would leave that much to chance in such a situation. But yes,” Glorfindel teased. “So try not to worry, leave that to me.” A strong hand rubbed the councilor's calf. They had both been working too hard today, but Erestor was the tensest betwixt them.  
  
“Very well, but that aside ... what I still do not understand is why Lindir would lie to us about Maglor's presence. I guessed at it, and you knew. You knew! I still cannot believe you did not tell me,” the councilor grouched. He was less pleased about the situation than his mate. Then again, he knew less about Maedhros and Maglor's character than Glorfindel did. Still, the sons of Fëanor had just appeared on their doorstep, and Erestor was always the more cautious party.  
  
“I know many things that I do not speak of,” the warrior sighed.  
  
“And I have had about enough of that tendency. Shall I leave you to explain to our lord why his adoptive fathers are flirting with his sons!?” Erestor snapped.  
  
“Hush. Hush. I know you are upset. Try not to think on such things. There is little you can do to stop love if it comes to pass. You do not have to like it, and I understand the way you feel. I truly do,” the golden warrior interjected. Erestor had not been so against the coming of Maglor or Maedhros, that was, until they had begun dallying with their lord's sons. The councilor's opinion had changed dramatically, then.  
  
“You are as bad as Thranduil, do you know that?” the councilor sullenly accused.  
  
“Thranduil is not really so bad, My Heart. I know you have seen him at his worst. But have you ever heard of him in love? For I have.”  
  
“Love? Thranduil? There is no love in him,” Erestor grunted, setting his cup aside fractiously. “But do tell me what you know of the _King_ of Greenwood that I do not. That is, if you will not share more about our two invaders.”  
  
This made Glorfindel smile beneficently, and he, too set his cup beside Erestor's. Then he crawled up next to him on the couch, taking his unhappy mate into his arms. Kissing the nape of his neck, he pulled a blanket around them and settled into a more favorable position. “Very well, I will tell you if you promise not to interrupt.” This made Erestor shoot him an ugly look, but the councilor did cuddle closer, snuggling beneath the warmth to listen. And so, the golden warrior began his tale.  
  
“Thranduil's gaze first fell upon her on the battlefield of Dagorlad. Or so the Lady Galadriel told me. She and I spoke of many things when last we met.” Erestor's gaze was now less impatient, and so Glorfindel continued. “Her name was Berelinil, and she was a maiden of great beauty. She was also crippled by great sorrow, for all of her family had fallen upon that bloody field; as did many of the Golden Host. Before Thranduil even learned of her heritage, though, his heart went out to her; for it was he who found her grieving her fallen father. And even after the elf-king returned in sorrow, and assumed the throne of Greenwood, his desire for her grew. Yes, despite the fact that he soon learned of her origins. He did love her, of this I am certain. Often he flirted with her, and soon he made excuses to join her at Lothlórien's edge. They spent many happy days there, and fell deeply in love. 'Twas there that Thranduil pledged not only his 'troth, but to end her sorrow. He married her with great difficulty, for Galadriel loved Berelinil and was loathe to part with her. But let her go, the Lady eventually did; and soon the two lovers were as one. And happy. For Berelinil loved her people, and bore Thranduil a son, whom she took great joy in. But always her heart was ill. Try as he might, Thranduil could not end her grief, and in his great love for her, when she declared she must face her loss or die trying, he let her go with a host of his fiercest warriors. She found her way to the swamps of Dagorlad to make her peace, but she never returned. None of her party did. After that, Thranduil raised his son. Alone, and in grief. And he never allowed himself to publicly suffer for, or speak aloud, of her. Joy left the wood soon after, and where sickness dwells … dark things follow.”  
  
Erestor turned his head to meet Glorfindel's gaze when he stopped speaking, astonished. “How is that I have never heard this tale?”  
  
“Perhaps … because you never asked? Have you never wondered?”  
  
Erestor looked ashamed. “I knew she had perished. I knew not how.”  
  
“You assumed, like everyone else, that his pompous nature drove her mad. But the story the Lady of the Wood told me was one of two happy elves, parted by a dark past. I think neither of us know the true Thranduil, and never shall. Perhaps it is like that with Maedhros and Maglor. Then again. If we but asked them, there is much we might learn. And it would be a shame to misjudge a heart willing to right that which it has wronged.”  
  
“You are making me feel sympathy for them!” the councilor protested.  
  
“You should. None of us is perfect. All of us make mistakes. It does not mean that we deserve to be unhappy forever. That we cannot put things right. If we do not try to better ourselves, we risk losing everything we worked so hard to gain. And if we are not willing to take risk, we have already lost everything we treasure,” Glorfindel admitted.

This stunned the councilor into silence; and with a soft sound of contrition, he rolled over and buried his face into the warrior’s chest.

“I know you are having a terrible day, beloved, I am sorry to prove you wrong. I simply want to do what is right. And that is hard. You say what you do because you love Elladan and Elrohir as if they were our sons. There is no shame in that. Just do not forget that we cannot make every decision for them. We should not, either,” the seneschal reminded.  
  
Erestor's only reply was to nuzzle closer, and to weep silent and frustrated tears. So the Lord of the Golden Flower rocked him until he fell asleep. It was hard on all of Imladris without Elrond to guide them. And while the warrior hated to do anything that might make that burden heavier for his mate; he could not let him interfere with the growth and experience of their lord’s sons. Life was to be lived, and living was learning. It could happen no other way.  
  
~*~  
TBC  
~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Here we are! Another chapter! A whole lot is going on, but fear not, the porn scene is at the start of the next chapter. I will apologize ahead of time for any stupidity, as my puppy is sick and I have been up for almost two days straight now. After an emergency trip to the vet he is feeling much better, but I keep running over to check on him. So, in the mean time, have a thing~ I hope you enjoy.
> 
> PS: THIS IS MY HEAD CANON FOR THRANDUIL'S WIFE. NOT PJ's. Okay thanks <3 (I do what I want :D~ )
> 
> I would also like to add that I'm really not into criticism. Some things mentioned here are head-canon and not perfectly true to Tolkien. I'm writing this story for my own entertainment. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't, well, no one is making you read it and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Beta Credit: All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
> Zeta Reader: All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond begins to fade to his grief. Who will heal the healer? A story of things lost, and found.

 

 **Chapter Nineteen:**  
  
      Lindir tilted his head in invitation, and Elrond obliged him. The peredhel's warm lips found the minstrel's, and he drank him down like he was dying of thirst. He had never once thought that he could could find comfort in another like this, nor stability. Celebrían had loved him, but she had desired him to always be her strength. Here there was a tender honesty between himself and his beloved, and Elrond did not have to pretend to be strong all the time. Nor did he want to.  
  
There was fear in his fingertips when he slid them against Lindir's warm skin, and he knew his own touch was tellingly cool. Still, the singer did not shiver. Instead he parted his borrowed robes and unlaced his tunic further; allowing the peredhel to explore, and to warm himself. The gesture was intentional, and fearless in a way that nearly took the healer's breath away.  
  
“I love you,” Elrond murmured as he leaned closer, lips shimming down the side of Lindir's jaw. And he did not object when the minstrel's hands undid his robes, pushing them from his shoulders. Courage. So much bravery … his faithful attendant knew what could come to be, and yet he did not fail to seize the moment. To live _now_. And to offer all he had to soothe the dark hours, the hours that men forgot so plagued Elf-kind.  
  
“I know. I have always known ...” Lindir whispered in reply. His honey-brown eyes were wide in the low light, filled with with an echoing shadow of grief— and more love and beneficence than Elrond could ever describe, or repay justly. “ … but do not stop. We need this. I am yours, and you are mine,” the singer comforted as the bond that was steadily forming between them flared to life; a golden glow whispering against the minstrel's skin. “Let me help you.”  
  
Elrond swallowed hard, fighting back the fear and shadows. In response, Lindir shook his head again. And before there was time to think, or any more uncertainty, the minstrel assisted them both in the shedding of the last of their garments.  
  
For a time the two lovers regarded each other, bare in the firelight and perched on the edge of the bed. The furs and blankets there made for an inviting retreat, and the dying flames from the hearth gave their quarters a halcyon glow. But Elrond's need would not wait, and Lindir was not far behind him in that regard. As such, they could not stay parted for long, and soon they moved to meet each other again; their hearts as inexorable as their mouths.  
  
The singer's hands were finally touching all of Elrond fearlessly, making a study of every inch of his skin; and when the peredhel pushed back from him and raised an index finger, a gesture to wait, Lindir looked stymied. But only for an instant; for when the healer slipped from the edge of the mattress to kneel beside their bed, his intent became clear.  
  
Reaching up, Elrond nudged his lover into a different position; pulling him closer and making certain he had both feet flat on the floor. Then, curling onto his hip and between his beloved's knees, the peredhel leaned forward to press a kiss to those lean stomach muscles. A hip bone, a knee … the inside of a thigh. And that was where he found the pinkest of scars. Lifting his head uncertainly, he asked, “Where are these from? They are fresh!” his elegant brow was furrowed in objection, and his desire temporarily thwarted.  
  
Elrond asked, and yet, he already knew.  
  
For the healer had seen this sort of injury before. Elladan still bore a few marks upon his shins and the soles of his feet. Thorns left a distinctive impression upon the flesh. Even on strong elven skin.  
  
“They are from when I searched for you, my Lord, and you were lost,” Lindir replied, his hands gently stroking along the tops of Elrond's shoulders. “The brambles were fierce.”  
  
“You went looking for me? It was not Glorfindel?” the peredhel asked, suddenly aghast … and vaguely amused. They had not told him. They had never told him ...  
  
“Aye. I did, my Lord.”  
  
Elrond then had to do his best to rein in his impatience, trying not to be offended. He had not been himself at the time. His seneschal and councilor had no doubt thought it best to avoid distressing him further, even if they knew that he despised deception. Calm. He had to be calm.“You went searching for me, and I see that my lands were not kind to you,” he replied apologetically, after which he pressed another kiss to his beloved's skin. This one directly to the thorn marks; the gesture making Lindir shudder.  
  
It seemed it was the inevitable part of growing, the scars. Growing and changing. One could not stay a child nor a blank slate forever. Nor could they be free of guilt, pain, or fear if they had really lived. Marks … they came. Some faded. Others worsened. But if there was one way to tell if a being had made the most of their time, it was simply to look upon their skin. For it was a map of their heart, of who they were, and where they had been; no longer empty but full of places and memories.  
  
“No, my Lord. They were not kind. But I found you, and I brought you home. I apologize if they are … unsightly.”  
  
“Indeed you found me,” the peredhel replied, tone implying that the other had helped in more than one way. “But do not be sorry. These scars denote the day that everything between us began to change. I think I like them, my minstrel. They come with growth. For you, and I both.”  
  
Smiling sadly, Elrond looked up into anxious brown eyes; and his bandage wrapped hand cupped that beautiful face. Using the beginning threads of the connection between them to reach out to his beloved, he tried to reassure both the singer, and himself. After all, he still had to come to terms with his own marks, and in a way … his _discovery_ made things easier. The darkness did not seem quite so bad when he knew he was not alone within it.  
  
Lindir was shaking his head at him again as if to deny everything, chestnut hair a wave of shining silk in the firelight. But Elrond ignored him and continued to speak, peppering more kisses here or there. “Yet I can never apologize enough for overlooking you. For taking your loyalty and love for granted. I forgot myself.” Then, before the peredhel could think any further rueful thoughts—such as Glorfindel actually lying to him, and what a fool he had been—he bowed his head and took the singer into his mouth.  
  
The hands that had been stroking his shoulders tightened for an instant, and Elrond could feel the jolt of surprised pleasure that washed back to him through their bond—that strange link that they enjoyed, and that he did not yet fully understand. Part of him wondered if they could find a way to share such a thing when they were not making love, but he knew that now was not the time for contemplation. Those lean hips were trying to thrust upwards into his mouth, and had to be held down. He could not let his mind wander unless he wanted to be choked. Besides, what he should be focused on was how best to indulge his mate.  
  
Like this, pleasuring the minstrel was more or less the same as pleasing himself, and in such a way that knowledge helped to guide the peredhel's motions. What Elrond had not been prepared for was when Lindir reached down between them, and something slick brushed against the back of his hand.  
  
Half-opening his eyes in the firelight, Elrond was shocked to see the singer's fingers glistening with oil, and beginning to massage at his own entrance. Coming up off of that length for a moment, he formed only one sentence, “Are you sure?” before receiving a nod of certainty from the minstrel. At that, the master-healer had to bury a moan of desire by taking his beloved back into his mouth. Had Lindir been carrying a vial of oil around in his robe pockets all day? Had he indirectly been planning for something just like this?  
  
Instinct told Elrond that was most likely, and he grinned ruefully as he began to indulge the other again with lips and tongue; his strong hands massaging lean thighs and toying with firm globes as the minstrel slipped fingertips inside of himself, moaning. Each sound echoed through their union like a shiver of pleasure up the peredhel's spine, and it was difficult to focus. But Elrond was determined to bring his lover even more ecstasy than he had before. It was hard not to strive with such a responsive partner, and already his own breathing was quickening.  
  
It was not long before tiny shudders in that svelte body, and stutters of sound from the singer's lips, announced that he had buried his fingers deep enough to reach that place within. And that was when the link they shared began to sing with power and desire. So much so that Elrond could not tell if he was stroking Lindir, or if the minstrel was touching him. But the pleasure built quickly. Almost painfully. And even as the peredhel lunged to grasp those strong hips, stopping them from making him choke; he swallowed down all his mate had to give— And found himself following without ever even having to touch himself.   
  
~*~  
  
     When the world filtered back to him, Elrond was trembling. Tears were running silently down his cheeks, and he clutched his injured arm to his chest. He had not realized the pain had worsened until it was nearly overwhelming. Or then again, maybe it was not his arm but his heart which hurt. With his climax he had been ripped open by their union; and he felt so suddenly, terribly exposed and vulnerable that he almost pulled away from Lindir.  
  
Luckily his beloved knew him better than he knew himself.  
  
The singer's free hand, which had been clasped into his inky hair, was now using his tresses to tug him closer, upward and into the minstrel's arms. Elrond went willingly enough in the end, and when his beloved wrapped him in a warm and protective embrace, he let himself weep; for he could no longer hold back his grief and fear, and he knew that Lindir would never ask him to.  
  
They both ignored the mess between them, and soon enough the singer was kissing away his tears. Words were leaving the peredhel's lips, words that might have been shameful for him to repeat before anyone else. But he could not stop them. Their bond was open, that strange magic tingling like sunlight on bare skin, and love and fears were shared equally. “I miss my brother. I miss him so … I miss my family, Celebrían, and Gil-galad. Oh, Elbereth I miss them. But I do not want to die like this, I do not want to die and leave you … have I failed? Have I failed them? Have I failed my children?” Elrond sobbed, shoulders heaving as despair clawed at him.  
  
Lindir's clean fingers clasped along the peredhel's forearm gently, directly over the bandage, and he pulled the wounded limb between them. The singer could feel how cold it was, and he pressed it to his heart, trying to ease the pain and chill. “You have not failed. My Lord, you have not failed at all. We will overcome this, you and I … Now, come into me. Take me and let your heart sing to mine. Even if the song is sad, I will not turn away,” he whispered. And his other hand, still slick with oil, came between them. Clasping his beloved, Lindir began to stroke him; hazel eyes never leaving his master's tear-filled gray. And Elrond whimpered, surprised to find that his body could still respond after his first release, and through his grief; but respond it did.  
  
Then, somehow, though the peredhel could not quite remember how they got that way; he found Lindir lying beneath him. The singer on his belly in the furs. There was another quick touch, more oil; and how could he resist? Dropping to his elbows, Elrond used their position to hide his wounded arm beneath the singer, relishing the warmth; and used his good one to hold all of his weight. Like this, he could not help his sigh of relief. The touch of skin on skin was amazing, and that toned back against his bare chest ...  
  
This was what he needed, and his beloved had known.  
  
“I need this. I need you,” Lindir pleaded to him, unintentionally echoing his lord's thoughts as he arched his hips down into the fur, and then his firm rump back against Elrond's aching desire.  
  
With the bond open between them, Elrond could feel snippets of what his lover did. And in a way it was intensely gratifying. Listening with his heart, he eavesdropped as he positioned himself, as he spread the other wide and then … took.  
  
 _The weight of his master was pressing him down, that muscular chest firm against his slighter back … and it was addictive, not unnerving. And unlike the first time, Lindir was not afraid. Even when Elrond nipped against his shoulder and then sank deeply inside in one long, slow thrust; he did not complain in the least. But he did moan. How could he not? He had never been desired like this before, let himself feel like this before. And now he wanted everything ..._  
  
That loud moan startled Elrond, helping him regain his faculties enough to think within himself again. And pulling back from their connection enough to have his sense of self back; that tight heat greeted him, beckoning him deeper. The peredhel knew he could not keep his motions terribly gentle. For like this was a particular favorite position of his; and with his arm warm beneath their combined body heat, he was not thinking about pain. Even grief fled when he made the minstrel cry out for him a second time, his need withdrawing and then plunging back in. That tight, velvety heat cradling him, welcoming him, and setting their bond alight.  
  
“Oh, my Lord. Oh … oh _Elrond_ ...” Lindir was already mewling, his hands clutching tightly into the fur beneath him. The tickle and spill of the peredhel's hair across his upper back and shoulders was making him writhe; and already he was instinctively moving back to meet his lover's thrusts.  
  
The past fled for them both, and the 'now' was a tangle of pleasure and relief that threatened to unravel at any moment … So the master-healer held on to it all the more tightly, secretly pleased to be called by his name.  
  
“Please … please more. Oh please ...”  
  
The peredhel could not help the chuckle that left his lips, nor some of the darkness that left his heart. How beautiful his minstrel was like this. Mentally, he tucked away every detail; never wanting to forget an instant between them. And as he began to kiss along lean shoulders, he watched those sinewy muscles work beneath as the singer bucked back to meet him. He watched those long and talented fingers claw for purchase poignantly. And he gave. Harder and deeper, slower and shallow. Sometimes he just let his full weight come to rest and _rocked_ until he thought he could go no deeper without pain for either of them.  
  
And every time he was met by a well-pleased Lindir.  
  
So that became Elrond's goal, to draw out every tiny sound and cry. To make them both forget the evil that was closing in. And it was no surprise when his beloved did not last all that long. With a shuddering wail of pleasure, the singer clenched down around him and spilled out, and the peredhel came so hard he thought he might black out. He had nearly overfilled his lover, and he could already feel himself trickling down the inside of a trembling thigh through their bond.  
  
And when they were through, Elrond slumped; all of his weight falling upon the minstrel as he trembled and tried to catch his breath. And as his heart slowed, and he could finally feel something other than overwhelming pleasure, he sighed. This was an escape. Their lovemaking had been an escape. But perhaps … a badly needed one. For no medicine could cure what had come to pass. And he was weary. His heart could not sing, it was true. But he could feel Lindir's beating close to his, a nurturing and radiant light. And he closed his eyes with a groan. Pulling out and then falling to the side.  
  
“Sleep,” The minstrel whispered from somewhere deep within the furs. “Sleep, my Lord. It is time for dreams. Good dreams. For I will guard your heart. Sleep.”  
  
And Elrond did, utterly exhausted from the day. He could no longer fight his eyelids, or the way the bond between them cradled him.  
  
Elrond Peredhel … was spent.  
  
~*~  
  
    Lindir had washed up his lord as he slept; and as he wrung the cloth out into the sink, his gaze was drawn up to his reflection in the mirror above the basin. He looked wide-eyed and pale. And rather suddenly the singer found himself feeling as his master must have for most of the day.  
  
Alone.  
  
Elrond was sleeping so deeply he could hear him snoring; which reassured the minstrel that the peredhel was not having fell dreams. His lord had not even stirred at the touch of the cloth, and Lindir had ... envied him that. Even though he knew the other had gone long without rest, and that this was hard won and badly needed repose.  
  
Swallowing hard, the singer was suddenly swept by a wave of nausea. Panic, fear, and a dozen other tangles of emotion washed over him; and he found himself kneeling beside the toilet, heaving. He threw up until he felt empty, and then lay there, tears soaking his arm as he curled along the edge of the porcelain. He had nearly been killed today, and there had been so much blood ... If Elrond had not come along …  
  
Then, to make matters worse, while Lindir had been away engaging in his folly, his master had been grievously hurt.  
  
And this was not a simple wound. This was as insidious as the shards of a Morgul blade. The darkness would continue its march through the peredhel's body until it consumed his heart. Then? Imladris would fall. So would most of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth. And it would be because Lindir had not given his all.  
  
It was frightening for the singer to realize how much he had become part of his master. And he knew that if Elrond died, so would he. This strange bond between them only reinforced that belief. He was not brave enough to go on by himself. Not anymore. He was not like Erestor, or Glorfindel. He was not a hero. He was a simple minstrel. A simple minstrel, tied by his very soul to a noble elf-lord who held so many responsibilities it was terrifying. What would his father say? Why, Lindir knew exactly what. It was not true, but he knew. And that thought alone was almost too much. Learning to make love had released feelings within the singer that he did not understand how to approach, let alone handle. 

 

Overwhelmed. He was overwhelmed.  
  
Today had been staggering. He hurt inside and out, and was aching from Elrond's ministrations. So when he could bear his shaking no longer, he dragged himself into the hot spring; hoping that would help. He washed until he was free of any slickness or stickiness, then pulled the tangles out of his hair with the help of a nearby vial of bathing oil. And when he felt he was as presentable as he could get, he soaked. Letting the heat ease the cramping in his lower body. He felt empty and alone, wanting to be with Elrond, and … not at the same time.  
  
He did not know how long he sat there, but in the end it was the link between them that drew him back. No matter how overwrought he was, this strange tangle of fate, this thin golden thread that bound them as one and sometimes frightened him … it led him unerring to his master.   
  
Drying himself thoroughly, and taking the time to rinse his mouth and comb his hair, the singer at last returned to Elrond. And as he looked down on that pale form, those dark lashes fluttering in dreams against high cheekbones … he suddenly felt right again. Just looking at his lord reminded him of what he still had. And when he curled into the peredhel's arms, resting his forehead to that broader shoulder, he knew he was meant to fit there.  
  
When Elrond murmured to him in his sleep, Lindir stroked his inky hair in reply. The gesture was long and slow, and it ended just at his master's elbow where the bandages began. The singer frowned. This energy … the darkness was so like Annatar's. It was undeniable, really. The Rings were back in play; somehow, and for some reason that a simple minstrel could not comprehend.  
  
Elrond had said that he dreamed of Elros clutching the One Ring … that he had seen ruin and death. Was it a warning? A premonition? Of course the enemy wanted Vilya. The few remaining Rings of Power could, when united, stop the One. But this went beyond that, and some of the Rings had been lost or were simply not within reach anymore. That meant such a thing was not a viable option for the Free Peoples _or_ the Dark Lord. So, why? Vilya by herself was not that powerful. Enough to protect Imladris, certainly. But something else was afoot ...  
  
Then Elrond murmured in his sleep, and it interrupted the singer's thoughts. And when the peredhel curled closer, wrapping his good arm around Lindir, the singer let him do so; finding that he felt better for it. It reassured him, and put a stop to his musings so that he was able to close his eyes. And in his lord's arms, all his previous worry and loneliness faded away; his uncertainty ebbing until he could relax.  
  
And when the minstrel finally dreamed, he dreamed of Nargothrond. He dreamed of his mother’s embrace, and playing in the long, airy tunnels while his parents went about their days. He dreamed of glow-worms and fresh moss, and the odd echoes that became a lullaby, as if the hush of the earth, the flow of wind, and the rumble and drip of water were wrapped inexorably into one element that made him who he was. He was Lindir.  
  
And that night he did not dream of Sirion burning.  
  
Instead, he dreamed something far more perplexing.  
  
~*~  
  
    A drop of cool water fell on Lindir's upturned face, and he opened his eyes out of shock. He did not know where he was, at least not at first. Strangely enough, though, he knew this to be a vision. For this was no dream, nor was it reality. It was somewhere in between.  
  
He was standing up to his knees in mud, and the roiling clouds smeared across the sky above were weeping.  
  
Sickly water washed against the tops of his thighs, and the smell of blood, death, and sulfur infused his senses. It was hot, ghastly so, and he became aware that sweat was soaking his robes. His hair clung to his face in places, straight silk becoming tangled curls; and he could scarcely breathe for the humidity.  
  
But what he was most aware of was _pain_. A sense of suffering and entrapment.  And somehow he knew this place was real, that it was nearby, and that he should know its name; even if he had not been there himself. There were cries, wails … ethereal and hollow.  
  
“Where am I?” he finally asked, looking about. Speaking just to hear himself, his voice sounded tinny to his own ears; and everywhere he cast his gaze corpses bobbed beneath the water. They were truly dead … and yet they were not. Peaceful countenances they bore, as if they were merely sleeping. Instead he was filled with a sense of dreadful … waiting.  
  
“Save my people,” a female voice whispered above him.  
  
“I beg your pardon?” The minstrel whispered in reply, looking further up despite the fact that he knew he would regret doing so.  
  
“Singer … save my people. Save my heart …” that voice whispered again—from ghostly lips.  
  
Above him a tall elf-maiden in white gowns hovered, the fabric rippling about her in a silent wind; one that the singer could not feel. She reached down, cupping his face in her icy, translucent palm. He wanted to pull away, but she was so terrifying she was mesmerizing; and he might as well have been frozen in place. He could see his breath before him in great clouds despite the heat, and if he had stood in front of a glacier with a desert waste to his back, he mused that it might have felt similar.  
  
“Who are your people?” Lindir asked in reply. He felt that he should not deny her, that he could not tell her 'no'. That there was no hiding from her. She would find him. She would always find him.  
  
“Save my people. Help me save my people. You must free me. Save my people,” she crooned again, her ghostly hands tightening until he could feel her fingernails, icy and sharp. It should not have been possible to feel such things from a ghost. But Lindir undeniably did.  
  
“ _Who_ are your people?” the singer demanded, fear yielding to frustration.  
  
Trust the Valar to have him argue with a shade.  
  
“Save my people!” She was shouting now. The wind around her picking up into a tempest, and the dead about her stirred. Blue spirits rising from the muck had joined the storm, circling and shrieking while leaving their husks far below in the churn ...  
  
And when he awoke, Lindir could not help his shout of fear. Elrond's arms were around him, but he was still trembling. Those pale, burning eyes having pierce him to the marrow.  
  
“I have you. I have you. 'Twas just a dream. I have you,” the peredhel hummed, stroking Lindir's sweat soaked hair.  
  
“No,” Lindir rasped, voice quavering. “No it was not.” And then he buried his face into his master's shoulder, trying to catch his breath. Longing to be rid of the wash of death and darkness that seemed to desire to drag him down. Down into the swamps.  
  
The swamps of Dagorlad.  
  
~*~  
  
    Glorfindel read the night-watch's report for what felt like the twentieth time. He still could not make it make sense. He knew what he was seeing. The enemy was moving. They might even be amassing a force. But that was not possible. They could not have known that Lord Elrond was away … and any who might have been likely to betray fair Imladris had no chance to.  
  
The golden warrior was trusting, but he was not a fool. He had someone keeping watch on Maglor and Maedhros both, day in and day out.  
  
Erestor announced his presence by resting a kind hand to his beloved's shoulder, and despite his best efforts, Glorfindel startled; then looked up to him with a swallowed groan.  
  
“What is it?” the councilor asked.  
  
For a very long time, the Elda did not answer, and Erestor followed his gaze thoughtfully until it came back to rest on the notes. Without being asked to, the dark-haired elf summarily plucked the documents from his betrothed's grasp, and began to read it himself.  
  
There was no visible reaction on that serious face for a time, but the councilor had definitely gone from leaning against the table to sitting on the edge of it. “You think … you think they will move against us?” he asked, brow furrowing.  
  
“I know so. But I am afraid to jump at shadows. If the enemy wants us to tip our hand, this would be the best way to provoke us,” the seneschal said.  
  
“And if you are wrong and we are unprepared, they will simply sweep down from the mountains and crush us. Have you spoken to Elladan?”  
  
“I have not, yet. I do not know where to begin. By right he is our Lord now. I should be reporting this to him immediately. But in my heart I still see him as a child. I do not want to put this sort of a decision upon him. Nor Elrohir. Nor Arwen. Though if an accord is reached, I feel that all three should be partisan to it. This is their birthright. These are their people. This is their house.” The Lord of the Golden Flower swallowed hard, and then his voice failed him.  
  
Erestor looked over to him, and setting the papers aside, drew him into his arms from where he was perched. “You will not speak to them alone. I will be with you. I would even risk inviting Lord Maedhros and Lord Maglor … they may have insight into the situation even greater than ours. They have traveled more recently, too.”  
  
“Maglor has been slipping in and out of this city secretly for years. I could hazard a guess that he knows just as much as our enemies do about breaching our defenses. Perhaps he might go about telling us his opinion on fortifying them,” Glorfindel expounded, sounding slightly exasperated, but equally hopeful as he agreed with his mate.  
  
“I do not yet know if the sons of Fëanor will betray us, or if my council might be folly and part of the Dark Lord's plan,” Erestor said, looking concerned.  
  
“None of us do. None of us are promised anything. But we cannot be paralyzed by fear. If the Valar are with us, they are with us. If they are not, then we make our own fate. And I for one, would rather make my own fate. We can be pawns … or we can try as valiantly as we might,” the seneschal said bravely.  
  
Erestor nodded, and Glorfindel slowly wound his arm around the councilor's waist. “But no matter what, my beloved. Wherever we go, we go together. I will not leave you. I would have you take active part in our defenses. I will never again abandon you.”  
  
And when the warrior felt warm tears falling in his hair, he said nothing of it.  
  
This was he and Erestor's worst fears come to life again.  
  
And they would have to face them. But this time, they would do so together.  
  
~*~  
TBC  
~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** This was a long time in coming, so for that I am sorry. Worse yet, as my beta has pointed out, things seem pretty dark. Try not to worry too much. Everything will work out in the end.  <3 Also, Lindir is already getting lots of snuggles in the next chapter. So no harm done. Elrond just got a little wiped out there and fell asleep. But he does care, I promise. Hope you enjoy <3 And thank you for reading! (Any errors in this chapter are mine and mine alone. As usual, I will touch this up within the next week or so.) PS: what the HELL has changed with formatting? OMG. This sucks! T_T
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I would also like to add that I'm really not into criticism. Some things mentioned here are head-canon and not perfectly true to Tolkien. I'm writing this story for my own entertainment. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't, well, no one is making you read it and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
>  **Beta Credit:** All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
>  **Zeta Reader:** All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond begins to fade to his grief. Who will heal the healer? A story of things lost, and found.

 

 **Chapter Twenty:** **  
**  
Glorfindel and Erestor had come and gone; leaving Elladan holding a handful of reports like an elf drowning clutched a rope. The peredhel had paced the circumference of the gazebo twice, too absorbed in his own concern to notice much. But on his fifth circuit in so many minutes, he caught a glimpse of red hair from the corner of his eye … and turning slowly he found Maedhros sitting at one of the chairs surrounding the meeting table; as bold and comfortable as if he had been invited to linger and provide counsel.  
  
He had not been.  
  
Oh, certainly the warrior had been summoned to the war council. But Maglor had come in his stead, bearing excuses for his sibling. And frankly, Elladan had been grateful for the minstrel's presence and the tall, red-head's absence. There was something soothing about the second-born of Fëanor. Maedhros, on the other hand … he was electric. He drew Elladan in and flustered him all at once, though the peredhel could not explain why.  
  
And when the eldest twin sighed aloud in frustration, Maedhros' smirk at the gesture only increased his exasperation with the day. “What are you __doing__ here?” Elladan finally snapped, brow quirked as he more-or-less threw the stack of parchment in his hand down upon the table. The slap of the paper on hard wood was unusually loud beneath the falls, but the red-head did not flinch.  
  
“I thought you might desire companionship,” Maedhros answered calmly.  
  
The peredhel had to bite his tongue to keep from rounding on the warrior. Maedhros might have been his grandfather by law, and his own sire might have loved and trusted him … but he was Fëanorion. Elladan did not need the companionship or advice of a butcher!  
  
Wincing, the eldest twin brought himself up short at that intolerant thought. Not long ago he had offered his friendship to Maedhros. But now that there was fear in his heart … fear for his people, he was too angry to think clearly. It was effecting his judgment, and he found himself sitting. In a chair that Maedhros had knowingly pulled away from the table for him.  
  
“What would _you_ know of me?” Elladan spit, surprising himself yet again. He was defensive because the other had read his turmoil as easily as his needs, and while Maedhros did not seem offended; the peredhel thought he should have been.  
  
“Many things, though this should not come as a surprise to you: Your eyes tell me everything that passes through your heart; and while I am certain you wish that they did not, it is the truth. When you look at me, I see your fear for your people. I see myself, and while it does hurt, it does not change that the truth: You know that war is the only thing I ever really understood. And I know you fear that I would betray you, and Imladris. But if you trust nothing else, trust how much I hate Morgoth and Sauron. Trust that while I may be nothing more than a … _kinslayer_ , I love my son. And my grandsons. And trust … trust that I have seen war and death, but now I have tasted life. You … _you_ gave me my freedom. You finally absolved me from that dreadful oath of my father's. And I will serve you. If by life or death I might protect Imladris, and her sons … I will make that sacrifice.”  
  
Elladan stared at Maedhros, suddenly feeling as young and frightened as he knew he looked. And when he thought he might be sick, his stomach clenching unsteadily within him, a strong arm came around his shoulders to pull him close. Yet the peredhel did not struggle, the instinct to defy gone. Instead he leaned forward in his chair and into the touch, needing it like air. And with his forehead pressed to Maedhros' broad shoulder; the elder twin found that the same energy, strength, and passion that had stirred him previously, was actually reassuring. “What do I do?” Elladan whispered hoarsely, shocked at how good it felt to be held like this, how safe it felt to ask such a vulnerable question.  
  
“You fight. And win. You do not stand alone.”  
  
~*~  
  
      “I want to go to him. He shouldn't have to do this alone,” Elrohir said to Maglor; a glass of wine in one hand as he stared out over the bridges of Imladris from the balcony of his rooms.  
  
“You are brothers. It is natural. You have always made decisions together. Now, as you grow, you are making decisions apart.” The minstrel was tuning his harp, long fingers idly plucking a sound from strings, seemingly at random.  
  
Elrohir eventually turned towards the son of Fëanor, gray gaze unknowingly a younger version of his father's as he stepped away from the railing. “I do not desire to lead this city, and neither does Elladan. It pains me that my brother is forced into a role that I, and my sister, would not willing take.”  
  
“Life is not fair, that is true,” Maglor replied. “But someone must lead. And even if mistakes are made, our people do understand. As elves we prize learning, knowledge, and discernment; and this is a priceless opportunity for the inhabitants of Imladris, and yourselves, to develop just that. I know it is frightening. And it is true, some will die. But you will all die if no one stands up to fight. Your brother and sister will be bastions for you. And you will be at Elladan's right hand. Maedhros and myself will stand at your back, and you will triumph. You must believe in yourselves.”  
  
Elrohir swallowed audibly, and resolutely taking another sip of wine, he set the glass aside on the railing; striding back into his chambers to have a seat on the ottoman before the minstrel's chair. Somehow the singer had gained his trust, had found himself cloistered in Elrohir's inner council. And the youngest twin was glad of that fact. He needed the company, or he would run straight back to his brother's side, and no doubt complicate things in an attempt to help. It was hard for Elrohir to do nothing. And Maglor seemed to be a patient teacher in the art of waiting.  
  
“Tell me,” Elrohir asked intensely. “Tell me why you would help us now?” It was rude to beleaguer the other with questions, and to look a gift horse in the mouth; but the peredhel felt that it was worth the risk of insult to know.  
  
“I was afraid,” Maglor admitted after a long pause, in which his brilliant blue eyes refused to leave Elrohir's.  
  
“You are a son of Fëanor! What have you to be afraid of?” Elrohir finally blurted. Often he spoke before he had thought, and he was not that surprised when Maglor laughed quietly at him.  
  
“Oh, Elrohir,” the minstrel began. His words came haltingly at first, but quickly gained in speed and strength. “I had already lost one of my sons, your uncle; I could not save nor help him. I had lost my last remaining sibling. I had given all, and gained nothing but ash in my hands. The ocean had claimed another star, and not only was I _kinslayer_ … I was an honorless oath-breaker whose only family was obliterated by my father's foolish crusade. What honor would that have brought your sire? What good would it have done him, and the life he was trying to rebuild? I swore I would never return to him, and that in penitence I would take all my darkness and evil deeds with me, allowing him to shine as he should. But again, I was arrogant. I was a fool. I thought that Gil-galad and Círdan would see to him and watch over him. That he did not need me. After all, I helped kidnap him; and Maedhros and I are the very reason that all his kin are dead or lost. Why would he want me around his betrothed or his children? … But I was wrong.”  
  
Maglor looked down to the scars that silvered his palms. There was shame on his face, and Elrohir's stomach knotted for him. Reaching out, the youngest twin took those hands into his, cradling them as he rubbed his thumbs over the singer's tender skin. “I am glad that you are here,” he admitted quietly. “Thank you.” The peredhel knew that was all he should say, and he could only try to reassure. For he was certain his words had been cruel, even if he had not meant them to be. And that he had dredged up a past best left buried.  
  
“When your father was lost and wandering, and I held him in my arms … I feared I was too late. That he had breathed his last and would fade. But the Lady of the Stars had other plans. She gave me another chance, and now I know what I must do.” Maglor's hands slowly closed over Elrohir's. “I will watch over Elrond's family, as I should have done for mine. I will protect this land, and I will protect you. This is my ***** wergild. And gladly … gladly do I pay it. For I was not absolved in the Halls as my brother was, and oft' my heart is dark. Perhaps this is a new beginning, for me and Maedhros. And … even for my father and son. Though they know it not.”  
  
His words made Elrohir smile, and bowing his head the peredhel lifted those hands to his lips, slowly kissing them where they were clasped over his. “I forgive you. My family forgives you. And you are right. We do need you. My father and Imladris need you. We do want you here. And we will be your home, if you will have us. Would you stay?”  
  
When the peredhel looked up, there were unshed tears trembling on the length of Maglor's dark lashes.  
  
“I am already here, and I think my heart always has been. For ever do I return to Imladris, no matter how far I wander.” The minstrel took a shuddering breath, then turned his head away.  
  
And with that, Elrohir knew that the Maglor's days of wandering were over; and his heart was glad to give him shelter.  
  
~*~  
  
      Elrond held Lindir close, for the minstrel's heart was pounding almost as fast as a sparrow's. The singer was also soaked in sweat and shivering; so the peredhel drew their sleeping furs more tightly around them as he kissed into that chestnut hair. “If it was more than a dream,” he encouraged. “What did you see?”   


The master-healer knew that his beloved had been developing his abilities, and that some second-sight might come along with that venture. It was almost a given for healers, especially for the few singers that he had met. Elrond also knew that his own second-sight had developed as he learned his craft, much to Maglor and Maedhros' confusion and concern; thus Lindir was probably past due for such a misadventure.   
  
“I ...” Lindir began, and then hesitated.  
  
“Take a moment to gather yourself. You are safe. You are safe and you are in my arms. Whatever you saw cannot hurt you here.” And even as he spoke the latter words, Elrond knew they were a lie. For his own dreams had brought him injury, something he had not thought possible before. But better a comforting lie at this hour—some lost time before dawn as the fire guttered low—than bitter truth. That was for the light of day.

      Lindir was frightened. Not of the enormity of what he had gained in his relationship with his lord, but because he had never had anything to call his own before. He had seen entire cities burned, endless loss of life, and destruction of all he held dear time and again until he did not know where to start piecing things back together; let alone how. It was difficult for him to believe that Elrond would not be torn from him, too; and he was afraid to complain of anything, lest what was in his arms become nothing more than a fond memory. He was afraid that …  
  
“This … this is just like the Silmaril,” the singer breathed, head heavy upon his beloved's shoulder. “I am not safe, no one is. No. Not even you, my Lord. And Elbereth knows I wish for that more than anything else. I would give my life to bring you peace, to take this burden from you ...” Lindir's voice broke, and he had to take a shaky breath before he could gain control of his emotions.  
  
“How so?” Elrond replied, his words not a challenge, but an encouragement. He wanted to hear what his minstrel had to say.  
  
And Lindir did not feel worthy. The well-bred part of him commanded him to bite his tongue and to be a good attendant. Instead the words began to tumble out. He could not speak of his dream, but he could of Elrond's. He felt safe in his opinion on that much. For he had seen what had become of Annatar and his 'gifts.'  
  
  


“The Rings of Power, my Lord. I fear, I fear that while they were meant to be good, they could far too easily bring about our destruction. It is true that together they have enough power to overcome the One Ring … in reverse, the power of the One is enough to overcome _them_ if properly inspired. I am certain that is what your dream of your brother meant. The darkness can reach us through the Rings. And I know that Vilya keeps us safe, that she has given you the power to rebuild time and again: But a day will come when that will fade, and what then, my Lord? Do you think our enemies do not know this?”  
  
He felt Elrond take in a sharp breath, though the peredhel said nothing in return. Instead he listened intently, his strong hands stroking through Lindir's sleep-tangled hair. “You fear Imladris will fall ...”

It was a leading statement, and the singer rose quickly to the bait, knowing full well he was doing it, but unable to help himself. “I fear _you_ will fall. I have seen it happen to others time and again. For I once called Nargothrond home, my Lord. It was where I was born, and where I lived and played as an elfling. I served the sons of Fëanor in my youth until they were exiled. I saw the destruction of Doriath, and the sacking of Gondolin. I spent my time in Lindon feeling like a stranger, and I saw Gil-galad's fall. I have most assuredly seen my share of Kinslaying, and been at the beck and call of more than one master. My Lord … my _Lord_ I have seen well what the ‘gifts’ of Annatar bring … and I cannot help but feel that this … what is happening now? It is just like that. Again. I know that I am but a mere minstrel, a scholar and I should hold my tongue for strategy is not my calling. Yet I have lived long through the ages, long enough enough to see history repeat itself; and it is doing just that once more. _Please_ , my Lord …”  
  
Lindir could see the surprise in Elrond's eyes. He had never before spoken of himself, his family, or his home. Always he had been a mere minstrel. A good and quiet servant. But the singer was afraid. And for great reason, yet he would willing dredge up unpleasant memories if their knowledge would prevent another tragedy. Well, he would share all memories but one: The memory of the time that he had become Elrond's servant, long before the peredhel had been old enough to hold a blade. That was a secret of his, and one that was precious, and closely guarded by his heart.  
  
“Please my Lord. You have given me a hearth and a home. You have given me back my harp and my songs. You gave me a place to live when all was lost; and the love, trust, and acceptance of your own family. And now you give my heart all that you are. And that is beyond comprehension for someone as unworthy as myself. I cannot bear to lose anything or anyone again. I cannot lose you. Please … I beg you. Take care? Take care for me if for no other?” The minstrel winced at his words. They were from his heart, and he knew it was not right to ask his beloved to care more for him than anyone else. But he could not help it. He expected to be rebuffed, and knew that he was deserving of it ... But Elrond continued to stroke his hair, seemingly unfazed.  
  
“It is a selfish thing you ask, and the first time since I have called you one of mine that I have heard any such thing from your lips ...” the peredhel finally replied, expression thoughtful.  
  
Lindir hung his head at that, cringing just slightly.  
  
“And yet I cannot fault you for it,” Elrond continued. “In fact, it would be wrong for you to keep silent when you feel so strongly.”

He tilted the singer's chin back up, forcing their eyes to meet.

“I understand how afraid you are. I understand what it costs you to tell me this, and appreciate how very loyal to me you always have been. I hear _you_. I hear your song, I see your bravery, and I think, my minstrel, that you are a finer, wiser lord than myself; even though you would never hear such things from me. I love you. You are worthy. And I will heed your words as much as I may. I know you are uncertain if you can trust me with your dreams and nightmares alike, I know you are afraid to frighten or hurt me. You have seen me at my lowest. You fear to lose me, and you were close, I admit that; though what came to pass was not your fault. But please try to believe in me. I need you to keep believing in me. And talk to me, show me everything. Your hopes, _and_ your fears. Even if you were merely one of my people I would want that much. But you are so much more. You are a lord in your own right. Call me Elrond. And tell me all there is to know about you. For you are my heart, you are my soul and my confidant. Please tell me, when you can. And let me help you, too.”  
  
Lindir could not find the words to reply to that, but in the end it did not matter. For Elrond's lips were on his own, and he could do no more than lean into that loving embrace and hold tightly, fiercely; for he had very much meant what he said. He could not face the emptiness of loss anymore. Especially not of Elrond. He could not fail his master and beloved. He would never belong to anyone else ever again, and would serve no other.  
  
And when it was his turn to weep, Elrond held him safe without saying a word— bandaged arm equally tight around the minstrel's waist— even if those wizened gray eyes occasionally flicked to the abandoned wedding ring resting on the bedside stand.  
  
~*~  
  
      Thranduil sat at his desk, papers and books strewn out before him; quill still poised for parchment, though a drop had fallen to blot the surface of a dark and ever-growing lake. The hour was late, and a glass of wine grew warm beside his elbow; forgotten as the Sinda stared at the potted orchid on one of the nearby plant stands. Its blossoms had been shades of her favorite color.

There was something in the air, something that filled the elf-king's heart with hope for what could never be. And for a time, he swore _she_ was in the room with him; standing just beside him as she used to while he attended his duties.

And that figment was shattered when Legolas strode in so flustered that he barely remembered to knock.  
  
The young prince stood uninvited within his sire's chambers, his eyes wide as if he had seen a ghost. But what was truly surprising was that he was still dressed in his sleep attire, and it added a sense of urgency to the situation. The two Sinda had not talked since their last … disagreement. So Thranduil knew that his son would not be here unless something of great importance had come to pass.  
  
“There has been a disturbance,” Legolas said darkly, a hint of breathlessness to his tone.  
  
Thranduil turned slowly, brow raising. “Go on.”  
  
“Two of the night watch were killed by a shade.”  
  
“Who was their commanding officer?” The elder Sinda asked, the other brow raising even though he was certain he already knew the answer.  
  
“Beriadan.”  
  
Wasting no time, the elf-king stood, setting his quill aside almost casually. “A shade? You are certain?” Sighing, he reached for his over-robes where they were draped on an empty chair. “Show me.”  
  
~*~  
  
      Lindir hovered groggily beside Elrond, the hem of his borrowed sleep robes lifted in one hand to avoid the blood. The minstrel's posture betrayed his horror, even though the expression on his face was unreadable. Nearby, Beriadan was talking quickly to the next shift of guards, who had the good grace to look just as terrified as everyone else in the hall.  
  
The healers that had recently arrived were fidgeting nervously, and eventually set their packs down. They had gotten there a few moments after Elrond and Lindir had, and it was clear that their healing skills were not needed, either. The two guards in question had never stood a chance.

Off to the side hall, a third night-watch sat; an elleth. She was leaning back against a nearby column, arm over her stomach as she stared vacantly. Thranduil himself stood beside her, and he had a strong hand upon her shoulder. Her eyes showed far too much white, and she was trembling so badly it was a miracle she had not fainted.  
  
“A shade of an elleth, just like me. A shade … Why? My King. We go on to Valinor. Why? She should not have been here, let alone able to harm us. How can the dead harm us? She cut their throats. She…”  
  
Thranduil hushed her, kneeling to fold her into strong arms; and she wept bitterly until a healer offered out a small vial for her to drink. One that took her consciousness from her, and allowed a nearby attendant to bear her away to the healing hall. She had survived something terrible, and her people would support her as best they could.  
  
When he stood again, the front of the elf-king's robes were covered in blood from embracing his guard; and when Elrond approached him there was a darkness upon the Sinda's countenance. But Lindir followed steadfastly at his master's right hand. Ready as ever to do what he must; though his heart was in his throat and he felt faint. For the singer knew what the surviving night guard had seen. He knew, and he felt sick. He now believed firmly that he should have said something of his dream; even though his voice would not have been acknowledged by any but his lord.  
  
“She is young?” Elrond asked softly.  
  
“Barely one hundred years. She did not see the battle, she does not know the power that accursed swamp holds,” Thranduil replied, eyes blandly taking in the scene around him. “When she wakes, will your singer attend to her?” The Sinda turned his weary gaze to Lindir who saluted him in reply; hand tapping over his heart.  
  
“Lindir will see to her, for that is all that is left to do this night other than to bury the dead,” Elrond's tone held a note of pity. Because that was what this was. Pitiful. A bitter, senseless loss of life. “Do you know what brought about this attack?” he continued, the mind of a strategist already at work despite the hour.  
  
“They want us to know they are here, and that they know where we are. Nothing is hidden from the eyes of the dead. Not even my caverns. There are glamours to keep our halls safe, but despite our care the shades can see us for all we are. The Dark Lord knows this. He grows more powerful within his keep. Though why he chose this hour to prove his points, I do not know. There is surely something else afoot.” Thranduil might have said more, but rather suddenly Elrond was staggering against the very pillar the elleth had previously crouched beside; hand upon it to brace himself as Lindir rushed to shoulder up beneath him.  
  
“My Lord? The sight?” The minstrel asked urgently.  
  
Elrond, however, could not even nod. He was already lost within a vision so powerful it took his breath, his bandaged arm clutched to his chest and bleeding freely once more.  
  
~*~  
  
     “How could you do it?” Elladan asked Maedhros.  
  
The two of them were walking at the edge of the ford. The red-haired warrior had demanded that he be allowed to survey the terrain surrounding the city so that he might give better council. And so the eldest twin had accompanied him on his trip at Glorfindel's behest. No one fully trusted Maedhros yet, then again, Elladan suspected that the sons of Fëanor were the least of Imladris' worries for the time being.  
  
“Do what?” Maedhros replied without guile, green eyes surveying the cliffs and the river. He seemed to be expecting an onslaught of questions. Then again, elves could be curious to the point of impertinence; and knowing the parentage of the twin peredhil, he expected no less from either of them.  
  
“How could you _leave_ them like that? He missed you so. He still grieves for you. I know you had lost your way, that you had lost everything. But how could you just abandon them? Adar was younger than me, then. He and my uncle both.” Elladan's gray eyes were full of sadness and worry.  
  
“Would you believe that from the moment I woke in the Halls, and after all that I had done … that was what I regretted the most?” Maedhros answered a question with a question, which was his wont.  
  
Elladan looked to him again, brow furrowed. “Surprisingly, yes. But how did you come to be here? How did you gain passage if none who go to the Undying Lands ever return?” This made Maedhros laugh, and the eldest twin frown at the seemingly incongruous response to his question. Though he had to admit the warrior was fiercely beautiful in the sunlight when he allowed himself to show emotion.  
  
As the red-head finally caught his breath again and straightened, he clapped a hand to Elladan's shoulder. “You have, perhaps, heard the tale of how your seneschal returned to you? That he annoyed Námo until he was thrown out of the Halls?”  
  
Elladan nodded, not able to help cracking a smile. Glorfindel did tell some amazing … yet repetitive tales when he was drunk.  
  
“It was something like that. And nothing like that. When your father needed me so much that he called my spirit to him in his dreams, it could be denied no more. It is true that the Valar seem to have turned a blind eye to the exiles in Arda. But that is not really so. I was sent to support Lord Elrond, to bring hope and show the good will of Valinor once more. And on a more personal note … this is what I must do to find forgiveness. Not on the orders of the Valar, but the needs of my heart. And it was Círdan saw me to these shores. I came directly to Imladris as fast as I might … though it was difficult. I found many things had changed. Some things, however, have not.”  
  
Hearing the alteration in tone and following Maedhros' gaze, Elladan began to notice something he had not before. At first … it was the smell. But once his keen eyes began to pick them out, he could see the goblin scouts scattered among the boulders and debris of the ford.  
  
“Maedhros?”  
  
“Get to the horses and ride. Sound the alarm. I will ride directly after you.”  
  
“Where are they coming from?”  
  
“Angmar, I suspect. You have had warbands stray this far before, have you not?”  
  
“Not down to the ford.”  
  
“Well you have now. Act as though they have not seen you for as long as possible. Their hearing is abominable,” Maedhros brow was quirked in thought.  
  
“I was going to note their smell before their hearing, but I yield to your greater years of experience,” the peredhel quipped.  
  
“Ride, and sound the alarm,” Maedhros sighed, hearing arrows being nocked even as Elladan began to jog back up the cliff to where they had tied their horses at the summit. Drawing his blade, the warrior grinned. He loved a challenge. And with both hands returned to him, he would buy Elladan as much time as he could.  
  
~*~  
  
      Erestor had been researching battle tactics in the depths of the libraries, when his cup of tea— balanced on a stack of nearby books—upended. He was so shocked by the suddenness and sheer volume of sound that he dropped the tome he had been reading, and tipped over a bottle of ink before he regained control of his reflexes. The booming alarm knells coming from the bell towers above him raised moats of dust from the nearby shelves, and made his sensitive ears ring. In all the years that Imladris had stood, there had never been cause to use those bells. Until now. Of course, he knew what that meant, and a sick dread began to fill his stomach.  
  
The scholar drew a dagger from up his sleeve, and righting the spilled bottle of ink, he gathering his shattered senses. Then he began to formulate a plan. First he had to locate his lord's children and ... “Glorfindel,” he whispered. This was just like it had been in Gondolin, and Erestor had absolutely no idea where his betrothed was. There came the sound of raised voices, the hush of running elf feet, and occasionally the clash of steel on steel followed by a goblin yelp or the yell of a guard …

At last the day that Erestor feared had come, and without another word he let himself out on the balcony. And unlike Lindir, he did not break his ankle when he leaped soundlessly into the flower bed beneath him.  
  
~*~  
  
      Asfaloth fidgeted nervously, but Arwen had the stallion well in hand. It had been Glorfindel who had boosted her into the saddle, and who belted his own sword at her waist. “Glorfindel, I would stay and fight!” she demanded darkly. “I cannot do this, you need every able warrior here, and here one stands! You cannot send me away like this! You cannot keep me safe by doing this!” She looked like she was all but ready to dismount when the warrior shook his head at her.  
  
“I do not keep you safe, I send you on the most dangerous of errands. It is also the most vital. I do not say this to flatter you. I need our fastest rider and horse. And that is you and Asfaloth. Not your brothers, nor myself and any other steed.”  
  
Those ancient blue eyes were tired and full of worry, but they were also reassuring; and Arwen found herself caught between believing the Elda, and being insulted.  
  
“Ride on. Ride until you reach the Greenwood. Beg your father's wisdom and his return. We will stand fast. We will stand firm. You will not be challenged at the crossing, and the Silvan scouts and hunters will aid you from there. I know you are clever and true, and you are the swiftest of us all. I have faith in you.” The golden warrior patted her calf, his grip strong and comforting as she reluctantly nodded. “But I need you to fly. Go, now! I will cover your escape.”  
  
Arwen still wanted to argue, she did. But when Glorfindel looked up at her with all that hope and fear in his gaze, she could not say another word. Instead, she leaned down to kiss his forehead, and heeling Asfaloth, she thundered out the back gate of the city ... toward the pass that had claimed her mother's life; the sound of distant combat ringing in her ears.  
  
~*~  
TBC  
~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Important!:** I have changed my username from Jadedsilk to Mythlorn. This change has been a long time in coming, but was a personal decision. It should not effect anything I have done or anyone else. I just wanted to reassure my readers I am still the same ~~pervert~~ Author!
> 
>  ***Weregild or Wergild ( With 'Wergild' being the arguable 'current' Germanic Spelling )** Is a common topic covered when reading any of Tolkien's works. It is not called by name that I am aware of, but is certainly conceptually presented. If you want to know more about it you can read here: http://www.britannica.com/topic/wergild and here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Weregild
> 
>  **A/N:** SO. MUCH. PLOT. Okay, but I kinda liked it. As usual this took forever for me to write, and it has NOT been to my Zeta reader yet. Any mistakes within this work are mine, and mine alone. Being as I am sort of ~~(definitely)~~ writing my own bastard time line, I would also thank my readers to remember that this is NOT meant to be historically accurate, perfectly true to Tolkien, or much of anything else, really. I sure am having fun, though! :D And I hope you are too! Thank you to my new readers, and any others who stick with me no matter how long it takes~ You folks are the best!
> 
> Lindir snuggles. I need more Lindir snuggles! -wanders off while raving to self-
> 
>  **Beta Credit:** All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
>  **Zeta Reader:** All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond begins to fade to his grief. Who will heal the healer? A story of things lost, and found.

 

 **Chapter Twenty-One:**  
  
“No! You cannot!” Lindir said, holding his lord tight about the waist and burying his face into his back to avoid being elbowed. It was just before dawn, and everyone within the caverns had been up for hours. Elrond was beyond exhausted; and that, the minstrel mused, was most likely how he was avoiding being dislodged.  
  
“Arwen! I must go! Imladris is in danger, Arwen is in danger! Unhand me!” Blood was seeping through Elrond's bandages, dripping onto the stone floor beneath him; and still the peredhel was trying to claw his way toward the doors.  
  
“My Lord,” Lindir crooned, feeling the energy leaving his master, feeling the desperation yielding to pain, exhaustion, and defeat. “Tell me of what you saw. We do not yet know if it will come to pass. Tell me instead of charging off blindly. This is not the hour, and we have no way to help anyone, let alone ourselves.” The minstrel wisely left the ' _you_ cannot even help yourself' unsaid. Just as he said nothing of the dark-riddled wound that was bleeding freely again, and sapping all of Elrond's strength. For Lindir was certain his beloved knew all of these things. But a lord and father's devotion was strong.   
  
In a way it was good to see the dedicated peredhel he remembered returning to himself.  
  
And when Elrond's knees finally buckled, the minstrel turned so that he could take him into his arms; settling them both to the floor while the peredhel buried his face in his chest. They were in the middle of the main hall, and Lindir knew how much this show of uncontrolled emotion must have rankled the master-healer's pride.   
  
“Listen to your attendant,” Thranduil said haughtily as he strode over. He, like the remaining few in the chamber, had been watching Elrond's vision, subsequent hysteria, and eventual collapse with great interest. If that was what one called the collective Silvan expression at the moment.  
  
For Lindir this was no different than any other day when Elrond had done, or at least attempted, something stupid or ill-advised. And while the situation might have been familiar, the sensation of frustration that oft accompanied it was cropping up as well. And oh, how the minstrel longed to tell the overbearing elf-king to step back. To leave his lord alone.

Elbereth knew Thranduil had done enough harm already…   
  
Feeling Elrond's commiserative huff against his collarbone, a stroke of the singer's hand managed to still his master's ire. And Lindir was glad it had, as he did not want his own anger to get the better of him. It was hard to behold the elf-king and not want to wipe that smug look off his face; but the minstrel was eventually able to put his wrath aside for his beloved's sake. Looking up to the Sinda, and gritting his teeth at having to do just that, he asked, “Can you spare a healer? My Lord needs fresh bandages.”  
  
“We have many fine healers,” Thranduil replied; his gaze taking in Elrond with a modicum of concern that seemed to surprise both himself, and Lindir.   
  
“Then spare one.” It was not a request.   
  
And the Sinda's eyebrow raised at that.  
  
~*~  
  
Arwen lay low across Asfaloth's neck, making herself a smaller target to hit. So far she had been able to avoid any goblins she came across, and she did not plan to stay around long enough for them to give her notice. She had been riding on and off for three days. Glorfindel's sword was growing heavier at her hip by the moment, she was weary; and the warmth of the afternoon was not helping, for the humid air had become suffocating as it mixed with scent of battle and sweaty horse.   
  
She knew that her biggest challenge would be to make her way up the Redhorn Pass. The treacherous path wound back and forth up the hill in sharp curves, and she would have to slow her flight if she did not want Asfaloth to fall. Then there was the matter of lack of cover, which meant she could be easy pickings for any archers lying in wait. 

Worse yet, she had been hearing the echo of hoofbeats in the distance for some time, and always in sync with Asfaloth's. She did not know who was following her, but the last thing she needed was a warband ambushing her. It was likely that the orcs had set up a pincer trap to stop outriders, so she would have to judge her speed well, and stay alert. There was no going back.  
  
Tilting her her gaze upward, she debated Caradhras once more as it loomed into view, and hugging the last of the cover before the pass, she checked the big stallion; forcing him to change leads as they approach the loose scree at the bottom of the incline.   
  
She had been angling to take the first turn when she caught a blur of red from the corner of her eye.   
  
Asfaloth sat down deeply in objection, sliding through the rubble to a dead stop; and the elf-maiden turned in the saddle to see none other than Maedhros. He was riding flat out towards her, the roan stallion he was astride heaving for air. Had he given her chase all the way from Imladris? Arwen went from tense to nearly panicked. If the other _was_ a traitor, and had been waiting for a chance to separate and slay Elrond's children; this would be the moment to do so. And not concerned by her faithless thought, Arwen's hand went to the hilt of Glorfindel's sword. She could feel the power of the blade humming through her fingertips.   
  
“Go,” Maedhros called, waving her forward; his urgent tone and posture instantly allaying her fears. “Go. I will ride beside you.”   
  
Arwen felt any remaining reservations she had about the other elf fall away. Maedhros was agreeing to shield her, to ride the outside edge of the narrow path and make sure that she made it up safely. If he intended to kill her, he would not have dared to make such an offer. And with her mind immediately changed, she wanted to argue in her surprise. The path was narrow. Two could ride abreast, it was true, but she did not want a life to be lost needlessly.   
  
Her hand then fell away from the sword hilt to take up the reins again.  
  
“Go!” Maedhros encouraged once more, riding up on her right.   
  
Asfaloth took that as his cue, and without waiting for Arwen to signal him, he lunged forward, churning up the path as the big roan beside him fell into stride.   
  
~*~  
  
“Do you think that if we applied Ithildin to the wound, it would heal it?” Lindir asked. Elrond's head lay in the minstrel's lap, and Dolnith was once again patiently re-bandaging the peredhel's injury. It had been three days since the attack at the gates.  
  
“That is a very good question. I cannot be sure,” Dolnith admitted. Her brow was furrowed as she looked over the master-healer's arm as a whole. It seemed as if the darkness was spreading. Instinct told her that they did not have long to decide on what to do. They could amputate the limb, but that was something that Lindir and Elrond both had flatly refused. A healer with only one arm could not do their work as efficiently; and if the peredhel could not heal, Dolnith suspected that his issues would increase tenfold until they consumed him. Besides, she could not guarantee that such drastic measures would even stop the dark poison from spreading. For all they knew, it had already metastasized elsewhere.  
  
“Whatever is happening, it seems to worsen when fell things are near. The necromancer … he must be responsible for this. Is it possible that he, too, is culpable for our lady's death? Would he have woven such a web, and manipulated every strand until my master was within his reach?” Lindir knew he was being too bold, and that he was speaking of things before a stranger that he was not sure he could voice directly to his lord in private.   
  
Elrond, to his credit, was listening. He had been reticent and weary since his vision in the hall, but he had eventually allowed his wounds to be tended. The peredhel was also impressed by Lindir's bravery; for the minstrel had stood up to Thranduil more than once in the last few days.  
  
And now the two ambassadors of Imladris were once again facing their newest despair. An insidious wound that would not heal. One that worsened in the presence of its inflictor. The injury was an indicator in a way, just like the weapons crafted from Gondolin steel. But instead of a blue glow in the presence of orcs, the condition of Elrond's arm worsened and the wounds opened once more when a creation of the necromancer was near. The enemy had clearly been hoping that the darkness would eventually consume the peredhel.   
  
But their opponent had made a mistake. He had also given Elrond a way to discern from whence their attacker came, and what he was responsible for.  
  
The loss of the two elves of the night watch had demoralized the defenders of the Greenwood. And the peredhel was still trying to make sense of all that had come to pass. He was terrified for Arwen, but he knew that he could not go to her. Lindir was right. The act of 'divide and conquer' had gotten them in to this mess, and if anyone made a wrong move now, it could send every viable countermeasure tumbling into chaos yet again.  
  
Elrond also wondered just how much they were playing into the necromancer's hands. For there was something niggling at the back of the healer's mind. Something that he wished he could pinpoint. Something that told him there was a pattern to this behavior, and if he could put his finger on it, he could move ahead of their enemy instead of being forced into corners and from one desperate act to the next.   
  
Divide and conquer … divide and conquer ….  
  
“Lindir,” the peredhel asked, suddenly galvanized. “Tell me. Tell me of your dream. Tell me every detail you can remember. It is a matter of great import!”   
  
Elrond's voice was like a thunderclap in the quiet of the healing hall, and even Dolnith jumped.  
  
~*~  
  
Beriadan was pacing, and Legolas sat nearby; long legs dangling over the banister railing he perched upon, his bow clutched in bloodless fists. The Greenwood was lost if even one of its people gave up, and the prince could not help but feel that this was the beginning of the end. Of morale, the forest, and he and his captain. His father could quite potentially use the event three days past as a reason to demote Beriadan; and Legolas did not put it past him despite the more positive changes he had seen in his sire in the last few weeks.  
  
The darkness was hovering just above the two lovers like an axe about to fall. And beyond the fact that demerit would harm his beloved, the young prince knew that his people could ill-afford the turmoil of a switch in leadership. For Legolas would follow no other; and their eyes were upon him. He could only hope that was in his lover's favor.  
  
“I still cannot believe it,” Beriadan whispered fiercely. “There was no way my hunters could have been prepared. I did not believe that shades could roam so far. Should they be doing so? Something is amiss. The dead have never found their way to us before. Even the spiders have turned back before our glamours. But these … these wraiths. They found us, and then they took us unawares. They could have crushed us, and they know that. This was a warning. Though why they would bother I do not know. Perhaps it is to dispirit us. If that is the case, I assure you it is working.”   
  
“What if it was dumb luck? Elbereth knows there are enough of them out there … wandering the swamp. It would be remarkably like our enemy to turn our broken blades back upon us,” Legolas said tiredly.  
  
“It was inevitable. If our opponent is what we think he is. If he was not destroyed … a necromancer is a necromancer. I would like to believe that there is still enough goodness left in the heart of our fallen brethren to withstand his call but ...” Beriadan stopped pacing to drop into a nearby chair.   
  
“But what if he _is_ controlling them?” Legolas murmured. “What if he has been sending out small patrols, and through process of elimination he has traced us here. When his wraiths slaughtered our sentries, the shades did not remain because they had to report back ...”  
  
“If that is the case,” Beriadan began, putting his head in his hands and tugging his fingers through his hair in frustration. “As men would say, 'We are fucked.'”   


“They could be more polite about it,” Legolas grumbled.  
  
“Men are seldom polite,” Beriadan grunted in reply.  
  
“That is true,” Legolas said. And jumping down from the railing he set his bow aside to rest a hand on the captain's powerful shoulder.

They would get through this.  
  
~*~  
  
For the last three days, goblins had been gaining entrance to the city through every nook and cranny that they could squeeze through. This also meant that a good many had tumbled into the river and drowned, or dashed themselves upon the rocks. And that saved the defenders within Imladris a great deal of time. However, if the city did not fall, Erestor foresaw that a great lament would arise from those who had to fish those pestilent corpses from the water.  
  
Being chief adviser, the councilor vowed silently to not be among those who drew the short straw.  
  
And finding himself standing back to back with Glorfindel, exhausted, and with black blood splattering his face and robes; Erestor was surprisingly pleased. This wave of their enemies had crested and broken upon the craftsman's tier. That had been the second great blunder on their opponents' part, aside from them trickling into the city and making their thin numbers … enjoyable to prune.  
  
The woodworkers seemed to be having the most fun with the onslaught, and from time to time a thrown spear would hum past Erestor's sensitive ear. Glorfindel never flinched, battling gamely on, but the councilor could not help the start that passed through his lean form at each toss. He was not a combat-hardened warrior. “How many more are there?” he bit out, watching his beloved slit the throat of a goblin who had been overconfident enough to try to stand toe to toe with the seneschal.

  
“I wish I could tell you. This is more than my scouts were reporting,” Glorfindel replied, a lunging forward kick from him taking out the knees of a second opponent.   
  
Erestor had loaned his beloved a dagger; having happened upon the golden warrior using an unfinished length of iron from one of the nearby forges as a makeshift weapon. The councilor had wanted to ask why Glorfindel was without his sword, but had not had the time or the fortitude. The adviser had yet to find Arwen, too, and had his suspicions about the matter.   
  
“We need to rest,” Erestor insisted.  
  
“You are an elf, you can go days without sleep. So can the goblins. Do you think they would accept a truce for a brief catnap?” Glorfindel deadpanned; leaning back as an arrow sailed by, taking out the next goblin he had been sizing up.  
  
Erestor just shook his head, and kept going. He was a scholar, not a warrior. But he would stand determinedly by Glorfindel's side until death parted them. Or he fell asleep on his feet.  
  
~*~  
  
Lindir lifted his head, eyes snapping open. He had been dozing beside his master when a strange sensation trickled across his skin. Elrond had already given in to slumber; and the singer's hands faltered where they had been stroking through the inky strands of his beloved's hair.   
  
This was much as it had been in the minstrel's vision. So much so that it was eerie.  But this was not a dream, and a pinch to the singer's forearm proved that.   
  
There was a cloying sensation growing all around him, the stench of something evil … and then the healers hall grew dark. Which was wrong, for Lindir knew it to be early evening at the latest. He was almost too frightened to move, but when he realized that he could see his breath, the minstrel jerked upright; dislodging Elrond who grumbled in confusion.   
  
Lindir was on his feet even as Elrond floundered after him; not certain what had awoken him, but knowing as surely as his attendant that whatever was happening boded no good.   
  
~*~  
  
Elladan was poised at the patrol point just above the ford. Throughout the days of near-endless combat, he had seen a number of noteworthy things. And now the older twin was waiting. For what he was not certain. Vilya was a heavy weight upon his finger, and the peredhel tried to  _ think _ . He had to be as deliberate as his enemy. And the concern that was gnawing at him was for his father as much as it was for Imladris. He had a bad feeling that this skirmish was only a prolonged distraction.

Maglor stood steadily beside him; and once again Elladan took comfort in the son of Fëanor's quiet presence.   
  
“If they are attacking here, that means they are attacking elsewhere. They would not give us any chance for reinforcements. Does that make sense?” the peredhel asked, eyes narrowed. Broad daylight was a foolish time for an attack by under-equipped forces, and creatures that were naturally nocturnal.  
  
“It does,” Maglor replied, blue eyes inscrutable as he surveyed the edge of the ford. Two warbands had appeared at the far side, and their numbers were quickly growing. This had to be the amassment for a final sortie. “It also means that while we are besieged from many directions, these forces are still divided.”  
  
“Do you think they really want us? Our fall would be advantageous that is true,” Elladan said, but he was certain he would be corrected by his companion.  
  
“No, I think they came here to rob something else. Something more precious. Time,” Maglor said, posture as unreadable as his expression.  
  
“They do still want the Ring?”  
  
“Oh they want the Ring, and they will take it if they can. But Elrond is the true heart of Imladris. If they strike him down, they will not have to move against the city any further. Ring or no, the elves here will despair and disperse on their own. And the darkness can freely take what it desires.”  
  
“But the enemy is losing forces here.”  
  
“They choose to sacrifice them. They know they will not succeed here. This is merely a distraction.”  
  
“Do they know where Adar is?” Elladan asked, brow furrowing.  
  
“They know, and as you are suggesting, they will be moving against the Greenwood if they have not already.”  
  
“Damn,” Elladan growled through his teeth.  
  
~*~  
  
Haldir stood tall upon the bank of the Anduin, the contingency behind him fidgeting. Rúmil was at his elbow, and Orophin was roaming down to the water's edge, checking that the crossing was still safe. The Lady of the Wood had ordered the marchwarden to stand ready. Healers were among his contingency; and while the relations between the Greenwood and Lothlórien were nothing as they once were, Lord Celeborn had declared that the aid of the Galadhrim would be needed.  
  
Needed, but Haldir doubted welcomed. It had been three days, and the marchwarden was still grinding his teeth about the stupidity of his orders as they waited. The last thing he had wanted to do was stand here endlessly baking in the sun; and his archers seemed to share that sentiment. But Haldir was nothing if he was not obedient. And the Galadhrim would do as they were bidden.   
  
Thankfully there was no rule that said he had to like his job. He simply had to _do_ it.  
  
~*~  
  
The horses needed to rest. As Arwen had expected, there had been resistance from goblins. Not only at the top of the pass, but on the downhill slope. The sun was also beginning to set, and she had a very bad feeling as the day grew ... darker. Maedhros seemed to share that opinion, for he still had his sword drawn, and he was circling her, watching before and behind them.  
  
“We must press on and make the crossing before nightfall,” the warrior said darkly.   
  
He had spoken little during their trip, a grim but protective specter. And Arwen had not asked him to. She was too frightened to speak; and had decided that silence was wiser when danger was all around. But she had to be certain she was not imaging her unease, so she voiced the question that weighed most heavily on her mind.   
  
“It is not just because of the treachery of the water, is it?” she asked. Asfaloth was blowing hard beneath her, his coat soaked with sweat and gobbets of foam. She didn't feel much better, if she was honest with herself.  
  
“No. I have a feeling we are being drawn into a trap that closes from three sides. And we do not want to be pinched in the middle,” Maedhros stated.   
  
“It is getting dark early. I do not like the feel of the wind, either. It was hot, and now it ...” Arwen trailed off, her graceful brow furrowed.  
  
“It feels chill. It is not a normal wind. This is dark magic. Let the horses catch their breath, but we must move on,” Maedhros said sternly, though his expression mirrored Arwen's.  
  
Arwen nodded, riding closer to the warrior. She was frightened, and she could not dismiss the tight sensation in her stomach.  
  
~*~  
  
Elrohir was exhausted. Some of the better laid boobie traps around the city were his doing, and he was surveying his handiwork now. There had been a lull in the combat, and he intended to take full advantage; accepting a drink from the water skin one of the nearby healers had passed him. 

And as he slaked his thirst, he counted the sheer number of dead goblins (and the occasional orc).   
  
If their fair city survived this onslaught, the peredhel wondered how long it would take to scrub away the smell of death. As it stood, it felt like the stench of dark blood would forever be in his nostrils, and his ears would remain forever dim from the ringing of steel on steel. And while he was much more adventurous than his brother, Elrohir found he did not care for this experience one whit. It was wrong. Death and darkness were never supposed to come to Imladris. They were never supposed to come … home.   
  
Home.  
  
The peredhel's childhood had been spent exploring every inch of Rivendell. Every cave, nook, cranny, and crack. And that had paid off in spades over the last few days. There had been a handful of casualties on Imladris' part. But otherwise … the enemy had been hit in ways they had never expected.  
  
Elrohir fought down the ache of worry in the pit of his stomach. He had not seen his brother or sister in what felt like an eternity; and the last he had spied Maedhros, the red-haired elf had been riding away from the city like he was on fire. The younger twin did not know what was happening, or what to believe. So he held firm to what he _did_ know.   
  
Goblins had to die, orcs needed to be tarred, feathered, and pushed into the Bruinen— he had been proud of that little maneuver—and Elrohir needed to find something to eat. The peredhel thought he would have no appetite, but apparently hope sprang eternal. Or at least an overworked and exhausted young sire's need for food did.  
  
~*~  
  
Glorfindel looked up when Elrohir called his name. Erestor had slumped to the edge of a broken crafting table, eating a bite of lembas; when the young peredhel addressed to him, too. And both felt relief in their hearts.   
  
Erestor nearly tripped over his burned and torn robes to throw his arms around the younger twin, and Glorfindel was not far behind, hugging the both of them to his broad chest.   
  
“Have you seen Elladan or Arwen?” the peredhel asked when he could breathe again.  
  
Glorfindel shook his head, and then had the good grace to blush and step back, letting go of the two elves in his arms like he had been stung.  
  
“Yes, Glorfindel. Have you seen Arwen? I have seen Elladan, he is atop the watch-wall with Maglor,” the councilor verbally prodded; eyes narrowed suspiciously.  
  
“I— ” the warrior began, but just then the bells began to ring once more, cutting the seneschal off.  
  
“—More?” Erestor groaned, quickly stuffing the last bite of waybread into his mouth.  
  
“The last. I had wondered when this might come,” Glorfindel said more calmly than he felt, raising a brow in relief. Erestor would kill him when he found out where Arwen had gone.   
  
“Why do I think this is going to be the worst wave yet?” Elrohir lamented.  
  
“I would not worry overmuch, I believe your brother has us covered,” The golden warrior chuckled as if he knew something his companions did not.

And he did. On several levels.  
  
~*~  
TBC  
~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: ... So much plot I think I imploded. I fear the next chapter won't be much better, but it should be action-packed! This has been beta read; but I have no idea if I missed anything, or if I mucked up my own plot. If I have, I promise to come back and touch this up when I'm less brain dead :F (what a week I tell you~) I hope you all enjoy, and once again, thank you for your patience, and for reading!~
> 
> I would like to add that I'm really not into criticism. Some things mentioned here are head-canon and not perfectly true to Tolkien. I'm writing this story for my own entertainment. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't, well, no one is making you read it and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you :D
> 
> Beta Credit: All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
> Zeta Reader: All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond begins to fade to his grief. Who will heal the healer? A story of things lost, and found.

 

** Chapter Twenty-Two: ** **  
**   
       “Lindir, what do you sense?” Elrond asked, hand coming to rest on the minstrel's forearm as he gave it a reassuring squeeze.  
  
“They are here. Elrond, they are here!”  
  
“Like it was in your dream? The shades?” the peredhel asked, trying to get his bearings after being rudely awoken from his nap.  
  
“I did not dream about this, but yes. It feels just as it did in my vision. When I was wandering in the swamps it was unnaturally cold, and the stench ...” Lindir trailed off.  
  
The singer's eyes were showing too much white around the edges as he cast about the healer's hall for where the shades might have gained entry; but it was difficult for him to concentrate when he was this frightened.  
  
“Why are they doing this?” Elrond asked. “Do you know?”  
  
“The necromancer, my Lord. They do his bidding through no choice of their own. Long have they tarried in that vile place. They should have gone on to be reborn in Aman, but they were trapped. And unlike men, their spirits are not tied to the earth. They have forgotten themselves. They grow weak, And the Dark Lord has taken control of them.”  
  
“But why? He could have used any other means. He could have directed any of the brood of Ungoliant, or any orc or goblin,” Elrond replied; baffled, for he was missing a piece of the puzzle and he was certain that his beloved held it.  
  
Lindir hung his head when his master's inscrutable gaze fell upon him.

“I did not want to say anything,” he murmured, “ … but Berelinil is the reason. You know as well as I that she can be used against Thranduil; to weaken him, and perhaps even slay him. I can almost guarantee she will be the tip of the spear. She was losing to the Necromancer, losing herself. That was why she came to me. Because I was nearest, and I could hear her.”  
  
“Can you hear her now?” Elrond asked seriously, gray eyes wide as the tactics of the enemy became clear.  
  
“No,” Lindir replied, expression intensely concentrated.  
  
“Thank Elbereth,” the peredhel sighed. He needed a heartbeat longer to think, and he hoped that he could have it. He had to find a pattern; and he mentally went over what he _did_ know as he let Lindir handle what he could not.  
  
Sauron had learned a number of things after attacking and wounding him. One thing was that Elrond was without Vilya, and that he had left the Ring far away in Imladris. The next had been that Imladris had been weakened and divided by Celebrían's death. But the third and most alarming fact was that a Ring of Power was in the hands of the peredhel's inexperienced son; and thus might be more easily acquired. These were three very bad pieces of information to reveal to one's enemies. However, the Free Peoples were not beaten yet.  
  
By attacking, the dark forces had involuntarily tipped their own hand; therein revealing Elrond's biggest concern. This sort of movement of troops and coordination could not be done without the work of a leader of note, and a great deal of reconnaissance. That person would be someone who had access to all factions and parties. And that someone had no doubt had admittance to the very meeting halls of Rivendell herself.  
  
The master-healer had no idea who that might have been, yet, but he only had a number of options and it would not take long to reach a conclusion.  
  
That said, if his vision of Arwen and his home had been true; the plan had been to attack Imladris at the same time as the Greenwood so that no help could come from either place. And if Elrond was reading the situation correctly, it would also give the Dark Lord a chance at flanking the Golden Wood. That, and persuading the Lady Galadriel to join him, or to capture Nenya outright.  
  
Had the Lady of the Wood foreseen this? Elrond hoped that she had. For not only did Thranduil need reinforcements, Lothlórien needed to be aware. And if he and Lindir survived this, Elrond pledged he would ride to give Celeborn warning. The Free Peoples could not afford to lose any more key positions on the battlefield, nor the hope that they represented.  
  
“Yes! I can hear her now. She is here,” Lindir all but shouted; interrupting Elrond's thoughts and tilting his head as if there was a song playing that only he could hear.  
  
~*~  
  
       Thranduil had been wandering the bathing pools deep within the belly of his caverns. He had tried to enjoy a long soak and a glass of wine, but his unease had continued to gnaw at him. And now, having given up on any thought of respite, he was elegantly garbed and as prepared as he could be to address his people. As a matter of fact, he had just been on his way to the dining hall to encourage the cooks to prepare a feast … when he heard _her_.  
  
“Thranduil,” Berelinil's voice whispered, echoing eerily through the stillness and low light.  
  
The glass in elf-king's hand fell from nerveless fingertips as he turned towards the call of his name. And he did not hear the crystal shatter on the stone floor.  
  
There, standing barefoot and translucent atop the spring's inky water, was his wife. Her robes fluttered around her in a silent, but furious wind. And where the tips of her toes touched the surface, ice began to spread across the ripples of the pool; making elaborate patterns of frost.

Thranduil could see his breath.  
  
“Feren!” the Sinda called to one of his guard, though his voice was a mere shiver.  
  
He knew that something was wrong. His beloved should either have been trapped within the swamps, or her spirit should have gone on to be reborn. This could not be her.  
  
“Come to me, my beloved,” she whispered. “Come to me, we have been apart so long.”  
  
A more solid path of ice formed across the top of the water; and despite his better judgment, the Silvan king whispered her name in reply, taking a step closer to the edge of the pool. He was barely aware of anything else happening in the room, and he did not feel his faithful bodyguard arrive at his side.  
  
~*~  
  
       Lindir was reaching out to the song around him, and feeling where it faltered. The water. He did not know these caverns well, but he recalled one thing from his time in Nargothrond: all water supplies and caves eventually fed into one another.  
  
Though their origins were far away, it was not impossible that the wraiths had found a way inside of Thranduil's stronghold through the underground waterways.  
  
“This way,” he called to Elrond; cornering hard into the main hall, and nearly colliding with Legolas and Beriadan who were hurrying from the opposite direction.  
  
Beriadan took one look at the minstrel's face, strong hands bracing against his shoulders to keep both to keep them from crashing into one another, and asked, “Where are they?!”  
  
“This way,” the singer panted. “Your arrows will not work on them. I know not how to fight them, only that we must stop them. If need be, tip your arrows in Ithildin.”  
  
“Like you did back in the clearing? Will that work for the undead?” Legolas asked, his intelligent gaze seeking Elrond's for confirmation as he waited for Lindir's reply. The peredhel looked owlish and pallid, and his arm was bleeding through the bandages again.  
  
Lindir nodded. “I believe so.”  
  
“Where do we meet them?” the elf-captain asked, already formulating a plan. “I can feel that they are inside the walls, and the front gate is untouched.”  
  
“Wherever Thranduil is,” Elrond said darkly.  
  
Legolas paled at this statement, eyes going wide. “The pools, he went to bathe. He took an injury in battle that still pains him at times. The hot water helps.”  
  
“No!” Lindir breathed. “We have to get to him before she does.”  
  
“She?” Beriadan asked, letting go of the minstrel's shoulders.  
  
~*~  
  
       Berelinil's shade had dropped Feren like a rock. Thranduil knelt beside his guard, and as the dust from a collapsed column settled, the Sinda's fingertips pressed lightly against the artery in the other elf's neck. His heart still beat, but the warrior was completely unconscious.  
  
This was not Berelinil. This _could not_ be his wife. She would never have attacked one of her own.  
  
And as tears streamed down his face, the Sinda rose to face her. His hand was at his side where crimson welled. She had sliced him with a spear of ice, and he felt numb enough to know he had already lost a good deal of blood. Had Feren not shielded him …  
  
Removing and tucking his cloak around his fallen protector, Thranduil drew himself up to his full height. “This is not you, Berelinil. You are a ghost of your former self. You are not this monster. The elleth I know would never have betrayed her people, nor harmed them. You would never have hurt me, or Feren.”  
  
Tears began to stream down that spectral face, and the elf-king's heart constricted. Had he been wrong? He had not believed that a spirit could grieve. But the shade before him was clearly doing so. Her voice was rising in a low wail, one that made the stones around the cavern tremble. And that was when the Sinda gained a sense of something else. She was fighting. Not him, but _something_. And twice she turned as if she was being pursued; so it came as no surprise when other undead began to rise from the water around her.  
  
This was what had killed his guards.  
  
Reaching for the hilt of his sword, Thranduil knew instinctively that he would not stand a chance against his opponents. So he waited. For what he did not know. But if his end came now, he would face it bravely so that he did not shame his son. This was his fault. And he hoped that if his life was what it took to buy the safety of his people, and Legolas, that it would be so.  
  
~*~  
  
       Beriadan was grateful that Legolas had agreed to go retrieve reinforcements, and that Lindir and Elrond stood at his side. He was not prepared for what he beheld. Thranduil was on his knees on the stone; his clothing torn, and blood dripping to the floor beneath him. He still held his sword in one hand, though the other was bracing him upright against a column. Above him was Berelinil; and around the ceiling of the cavern, wraiths streamed in a circle like vultures awaiting a warg kill.  
  
The captain hesitated for only a moment, then nocked an arrow to his bow and loosed it.  
  
It passed directly through the specter of his lady, and lodged in the far cave wall. However, it did draw her attention, and she turned to him with a hiss.  
  
“What now?” Beriadan asked his two companions.  
  
“I do not know,” Elrond replied; just as stunned. And while instinct told him to hurry to Thranduil's side, he did not dare approach. The dead were not easily defeated by steel or spell. And now, more than ever, he missed Vilya and wished she was upon his finger. She might have helped him heal his arm, which was bleeding freely though its bandages again.  
  
       Lindir, on the other hand, was mute in his fright. This was literally a nightmare come true for him, and deep within his chest he felt the grief for his own lady well up. Was this what she would become, too? Did the evil of the Dark Lord reach far enough to take her hostage, too … no. He would not even muse.  
  
“Lindir,” Elrond's voice cut through his beloved's fear, and the singer startled.  
  
His master was pleading to him for help, and he had to think of something. No one here had the ability to fight an enemy that blades could not cut. No one but him. And they had to stop Berelinil before she killed Thranduil. Had she not begged Lindir to find a way to do just that?  
  
Closing his eyes, the minstrel tried to blink away the tears that had been making them blur. And that was when the he realized something. There was music here. Music that the ears of most elves could not hear. But it was there nonetheless.  
  
Among the dead the Song of Stars would often stop. That had been the most frightening part of Lindir's vision in the swamps. But there was still life here despite the overpowering stench of decay; and reaching down into the earth beneath him with the very essence of his soul, the singer could feel the steady hammer of something powerful. Eä had a heartbeat.  
  
And when he touched it, when that indefinable and potent power that churned within him brushed that of the earth itself; he was reunited with the sky. The stars sang to the trees, and the trees to the earth. All things that could still put down roots were connected. And then he could define it. The dark threads that bound all that was left of who Berelinil was. He could hear a song of evil. He would not call it darkness, for not all things that were dark were bad. Death had a place just as life did.  
  
Yet now he wanted to curse Maglor with all he had, for something he had never understood before had become clear. This had been what the other singer had never told him about for fear he was not ready to understand it. A singer could be a warrior as well as healer, a herald of life or of death. A singer, could in fact, be a necromancer. For to learn how to heal was to learn how to kill. And as quickly as that had occurred to him, the singer realized something else. He could undo this. He could give Berelinil back her control. And then … he could free her. He could free every spirit here today. And that was what he intended to do.  
  
Fear fled as the minstrel made his way forward. His steps slow at first, and then surer. And he put himself steadfastly between the enraged spirits and his companions. There was a pulse of energy that trailed along his fingertips, and coming between Berelinil and Thranduil, he threw his arms wide; startling their attackers, and giving them pause.  
  
And Lindir sang.  
  
The song had no words. No discernible rhythm nor melody. For it was not a opus to please the ear or the heart, it was the very vibration of stars and universe. Of the sea and the sun and the moon. It was the echo of the dream of the Ainur, and it was a voice of life.  
  
And as if sensing that things could change for the better, the shades began to mill before the singer instead of above him. Berelinil, giving up her fight, came to hover just before him, too. And that was when Lindir dared to open his eyes. Suddenly, he did not see shades, but elves. And Berelinil … she was not cold and remote, but as vibrant as Anar and just as golden. And he smiled to her, reaching out to touch her shoulder.  
  
The remaining ties that bound her disapparated in trail of smoke, and the sensation of evil seemed to flutter away. The taint in the air fled, and one at a time the spirits of those lost in Dagorlad regarded themselves. Studying their translucent but beautiful hands and bodies. They were no longer screeching and circling like Nazgûl, but themselves once more. And Lindir touched each and every one of them in turn, sending out all the joy and light within his Fëa to combine with theirs.  
  
Then he could pause his song, and the first words from his lips in the silence that followed were “You are free.”  
  
~*~  
  
       Thranduil could scarcely breathe. Nor could anyone else in the hall. What Lindir had done would have baffled most Eldar, and the Sinda had not believed it possible. Standing before him was his wife, and she was no longer a shade. Her Fëa was a direct reflection of how he last remembered her, and when her gaze left Lindir's face, it fell to his.  
  
Moving around her savior, Berelinil smiled; and she reached out her hand as if to cup Thranduil's face. Her near-touch was warm, and the elf-king's legs trembled, as did his lower lip when tears spilled anew down his cheeks. He did not notice it, but the bleeding at his side stopped the instant she had mingled her renewed spirit with his.

“Do not weep. For now I am free. I am finally free at last. And so are you. Do not think on me any longer. I do not tell you not to grieve. I tell you not to grieve forever. For in despair, evil breeds. There is a future for you, though you have not glimpsed it yet. When I release you, I know your heart alone will be all that remembers my words. But beloved. Love our people. Love our son.”  
  
“I love you,” the Sinda whispered, voice choked, eyes red-rimmed.  
  
“I know. And I am so sorry that I could not fight the darkness within my heart. That was not your doing. But you must go on. And you will not do so alone. You will feel love again.”  
  
“My Lady,” the spirit of a sire nearest Berelinil came to stand beside her, interrupting her. “Perhaps, we may do one last thing to help?” he suggested.  
  
The souls behind her began to nod in agreement, looking to each other thoughtfully.  
  
“It is true,” the Lady of the Greenwood said, stepping back from Thranduil, her expression softening further when she heard him whimper for her.  
  
With a look of apology, she then knelt beside Feren where he lay crumpled on the floor, and a brush of her fingertips over his eyelids seemed to revive him.  
  
~*~  
  
       To those further away from Lindir, it appeared as if the shades had merely vanished. Elrond knew that something was still happening, though. Something he could not perceive with his eyes alone. The singer's words about freedom had had been the last thing he had heard before their attackers had disappeared; and his senses were still tingling from his minstrel's haunting song. And so he waited, his gray eyes studying Lindir and Thranduil who looked like they were frozen in place.  
  
It was only a matter of heartbeats before time restarted of its own accord. The room grew lighter. The shadows washed away. The guard who had fallen gave his head a confused shake, sitting up; and Thranduil dropped to his knees as if someone had cut the strings of a marionette.  
  
For all intents and purposes, the dust had settled; and the feeling of foreboding had simply disappeared from the baths. Not only that, but everyone present seemed to be recovered from their injuries (himself excluded). What had just happened?

Elrond Peredhel … had lived for a very long time. He had seen things of incredibly beauty and wonder. But never in all his years had he witnessed anything like he had today.  
  
He and Beriadan shared a startled glance before the elf-captain dashed into the room to shoulder up under his sire, and to check on his still poleaxed guardsman; while Elrond made his way to Lindir's side.  
  
Resting a palm on his beloved's shoulder, the peredhel could feel him trembling. “Come, you need to rest,” Elrond said.  
  
“No. We cannot rest. There are more coming!” Lindir pleaded, an edge of hysteria to his tone.  
  
“More?” Elrond asked, somehow not sounding surprised.  
  
“I have set the shades free, and they have agreed to help us fight before they return to Aman. The Necromancer had sent them against their will to take the caverns from within. Without, a contingency of orcs, goblins, and spiders marches against the gates.”  
  
There was the hush of running elf feet to announce that Legolas had arrived with reinforcements, and Elrond had seldom been so glad to see help in his life. Even if the contingency crowding the doorway of the bathing pools looked just as shocked as the peredhel felt.  
  
Legolas had immediately run to his father, putting his arms around him to steady him. And Beriadan, who had overheard what Lindir had said, let the elf-king come to rest in his son's arms before turning to address his men.  
  
“To the front gates, the enemy comes! The dead fight _with_ us, now!”  
  
~*~  
  
       Maedhros let go of Asfaloth's headstall as soon as both mounts had surged up out of the water; and instead of finishing the sentence he had been in the middle of, he immediately turned his roan to the south, expression incomprehensible.  
  
Drawing his blade, and leaving a very confused Arwen to copy him and follow him up out of the ford; the two elves came up short when they crested the rise and found a wall of shields and spears raised to them. “Halt!” A stern voice called from behind the flying standards of the Golden Wood.  
  
Asfaloth gave an angry snort and a paw, and his muscles bunched as he danced beneath Arwen, not liking anyone threatening his precious cargo.  
  
“Halt!” Came another cry from deeper within the forest, this time from a very confused Greenwood scout. And then a second.  
  
“This cannot end well,” Maedhros said, realizing now that they had not been pinched by the enemy, but by their allies.  
  
“Haldir?!” Arwen called, sheathing her borrowed sword even as he reached out to grasp Maedhros' forearm, urging him to lower his weapon. She had recognized the marchwarden, as he did her an instant later.  
  
“Lady Arwen?” Haldir called; disbelief in his tone as he strode between the ranks of his contingency, breaking the front phalanx to stare at her in surprise. “Stand down,” he ordered without looking back to his men. His shrewd gaze then settled on Maedhros; and there was instant mistrust on the Galadhrim's noble face before he turned to look to Arwen for reassurance. “Are you safe?”  
  
“Yes, we are safe,” she soothed.  
  
“What are you doing here? I do not know if my Lady or your father will be more righteously upset to find you at the crossing. This is not a good time for a visit,” Haldir said tiredly.  
  
“I could ask you the same,” Arwen retorted mildly, brow furrowing.  
  
“The Lady Galadriel has sent us to support the Greenwood. We were tracking several goblin spies who came this way. We crossed yesterday. Now, if you do not mind, it would help us to know your errand.” Haldir was being polite, but direct. No elf could afford to take chances today.  
  
Arwen had just been about to give the marchwarden a piece of her mind, and explain that Imladris was under attack when ...

“Who goes there?!” that insistent voice came again from the Silvan border guards deep within the forest.  
  
“Could someone please tell our neighbors to calm down?” Rúmil's soft voice cut through the tension from where he had come to stand at Haldir's elbow.  
  
The Galadhrim had been able to get some of the boundary guards to allow them passage, but messages regarding their errand were slow. There were no flet runners here as there were in Lothlórien. At times the Greenwood's left hand did not know what its right was doing.  
  
“I do not believe we will have time for pleasantries,” Maedhros interrupted, tone alarming every warrior within earshot. And as the son of Fëanor turned in the saddle to point toward the Old Forest Road, a deep hush fell upon the woods.  
  
Completely indifferent to the contingency just out of their sight, a parade of foul creatures came into view, skirting along the Greenwood with the kind of determination one only accredited to a battle already won.  
  
“Are we too late?” Arwen whispered softly, the color leaving her face.  
  
“No,” Haldir said, making his way to the Evenstar's side, laying a strong hand on her knee. “Our Lady has sent us to show our support. I choose to believe she would not throw away our lives. We will stand with the Greenwood this hour. Come. We will speak with the scouts, and with their permission … perhaps we can thin the enemy ranks before they arrive at the caverns. After all, they must pass Ost Fuin first.”  
  
“Do you think that the Malledhrim will let us aid them?” Rúmil asked his eldest brother quietly.  
  
“Even a Silvan can swallow their pride if it will save their people,” Haldir replied, expression distant. “Will you take your brother and go back for more reinforcements?”  
  
“You know that I will,” Orophin said, appearing as if summoned.  
  
“Take care, then. The both of you,” the marchwarden sighed.  
  
No. Haldir still did not like his orders. Not in the least.  
  
~*~  
  
       “Glor. Fin. Del!” Erestor growled. “I do not know if I should kill you to spare our lord the trouble, or let him decide your fate as is his right!”  
  
The golden warrior had done many things in his life to anger his mate, but never before had Erestor looked more apoplectic. The seneschal knew that when his name became three succinct syllables, he was doomed; and so he did not even try to plead for mercy.  
  
“I sent her to keep her safe. I sent her because her father needs her more than we do.”  
  
“You ... are an idiot. A completely feather-brained, idealistic, much too innocent fool. One who threw our lord's daughter out of the frying pan and into the fire!”  
  
“I sent her with a guard, my horse, and my sword.”  
  
“We sent her mother with a contingency! And look what good that did!” Erestor snarled.  
  
“I agree with you, my love. I do. I would be angry in your place— ”  
  
“—Furious.”  
  
“— Furious in your place.” Glorfindel let himself be corrected. “But it was the right thing to do. Have faith. I taught her to fight myself. She is grown, and we cannot shelter her forever.”  
  
“You tell that to Lord Elrond,” Erestor said, a hand on his hip.  
  
“I will tell Lord Elrond. No doubt that ours will be the first conversation upon his return.”  
  
“Whom did you send with her?” the councilor asked, pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off a headache from hunger and exhaustion.  
  
“Maedhros.”  
  
“Are you joking? Please tell me you are joking!” Erestor moaned.  
  
“I am not.”  
  
“Oh, Elbereth save us—what is that?” the adviser had stopped mid-sentence at a strange sound.  
  
A rumble had begun within the valley. It was the roar of water building as it often did with the rains and melts of the spring. Only it was not time for such an event, and Erestor turned to look at his betrothed, his eyebrow raised.  
  
“That, is the sound of a battle that is over,” Glorfindel said confidently.  
  
~*~  
  
       Elladan lay in a heap, half-dangling over the edge of the watch-wall. The Bruinen roared beneath him, and he felt nauseous even as Maglor hauled him back to the hard stones of the walkway.  
  
“Drink, you did well,” the minstrel said, pressing something cool and wet against the peredhel's lips.  
  
And Elladan did as he was told, though at first he tried to pull away. Whatever he was being given was much too sweet; but it was thick and cold, and the more he drank of it, the more the ache in his head eased. “What? ...” he asked intelligently, having to stop talking as he was urged to finish the last of whatever was in the vial.  
  
“This is the first time you have used your Fëa like this. You will be hungry, thirsty, and craving sweet things. The pain in your head will pass,” Maglor reassured.  
  
“I … I did it?” Elladan croaked.  
  
“You did it. You more than did it. There will be some flooding, but we can use that to our advantage to be rid of all the bodies.”  
  
“It is over?” the peredhel asked again.  
  
“Yes, it is over. You called the waters, and they did your bidding.” Maglor was smiling now, expression proud.  
  
“I do not think I can walk,” Elladan apologized, too weak to even lift his head from Maglor's lap. Vilya felt heavy and hot on his finger, and his lungs burned as if he had run a great distance.  
  
“Then do not. Rest. And I shall tell you a tale.”  
  
“Will my brother be all right?”  
  
“Yes. Everyone will be fine. You have done well, and have earned some respite. Imladris is in good hands.”  
  
“If you are certain?”  
  
“I am very certain,” the minstrel promised.  
  
~*~  
TBC  
~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hurrah! Everything is falling into place. And don't worry, there is more to come. This was a huge chapter and it had to be split. Positive feedback and encouragement are appreciated <3 Thank you for reading! (Also, OP Lindir <3 he so deserves this chance to shine.)
> 
> I would like to add that I'm really not into criticism. Some things mentioned here are head-canon and not perfectly true to Tolkien. I'm writing this story for my own entertainment. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't, well, no one is making you read it and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you :D
> 
> Beta Credit: All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
> Zeta Reader: All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond begins to fade to his grief. Who will heal the healer? A story of things lost, and found.

 

 **Chapter Twenty-Three:** **  
  
** Maglor stroked his scarred hands through Elladan's hair, studying the peredhel's face. The young sire lay sprawled in his lap; his inky tresses spilling out in tendrils across the minstrel's thighs, the hewn stone of the watch-wall beneath them, and his tunic. His gaze was unfocused, but he was staring up into the sky, a smile of relief turning up the corners of his mouth. And that filled the son of Fëanor's heart with hope despite the darkness of the last three days.  
  
“Long ago,” Maglor began his tale, “there was a minstrel. He was born a noble elf sire, and into a large family. The second among seven siblings, to be precise. He was the quietest son; for the one who came before, and all those after, were interested in the dealings of war. Not so for the second son. He preferred the peace of an empty glade and the thrum of harp, while his brothers enjoyed the clash of steel. Of course, the musician was not helpless. No. He discovered he had his own powers and abilities; though he kept them secret. And many great and terrible things happened to that minstrel. Though the grandest, and most disastrous came at the end of all things.”  
  
Maglor could feel Elladan's gaze on him now, but he did not let it sway him. Instead he covered Nenya with a cupped palm, settling the Ring closer to the peredhel's heart. He knew how heavy a burden power could be.  
  
“Within his hand, a star burned. And it took, and it took, and it took. For that was all that it knew anymore. And though it might have been beautiful to behold, its light was no longer pure. It had been captured out of wonder, not mastery; but take a master it did. It found its home in the tainted touch of that minstrel. And since that day, his song has never been the same. And since that day, the day which he gave his star back unto the sea, he has forever wandered. For with it, that star took the singer's heart, leaving only ashes in its wake. Or so he thought.”  
  
Elladan was listening, not only with his ears but his heart; and when he tilted his head back until sea-gray met blue, he could not help the wonder in his gaze.  
  
“The star, do you think the ocean made it anew?”  
  
“I know that it did. For it was returned to Ulmo. It was returned to the Valar, as it should have been from the start. And though the minstrel was foolish at first, and did not see it … he had arisen from the ashes, too. He had helped to break his own curse; and that which he had given away had been returned to him tenfold. The only reason happiness was not in his possession once more, was that he was too afraid to reach out and grasp it.”   
  
Leaning back against one of the many stone turrets behind him, Maglor looked into the sky, and a lone tear trailed down his high cheekbone, falling to Elladan's upturned face.   
  
“How long did it take him to realize it?”   
  
“All the ages that have come and gone between the first days of the oath.”  
  
~*~  
  
       Erestor grasped Elrohir's arm. The young sire had been been working tirelessly when he should have been sleeping. Of course, the councilor knew the behavior was born of worry, not excess energy; and so he had decided that it was time for him to intervene. Like father, like son.  
  
“Come,” the adviser said, his strong hand bringing Elrohir up short. The peredhel had been about to reach for another goblin corpse and toss it into the river.  
  
Around the two elves, all of Imladris was repairing, cleaning, scrubbing, sweeping … or yes, as distasteful as it was, removing bodies. Yet in all of the chaos, the Last Homely House had only lost four guardians; who now lay upon a dais nearby, awaiting the moment for grieving and a proper funeral.   
  
“There is no time for me to rest, what if attack comes again? We were not prepared,” Elrohir began to debate even before it was necessary; perhaps because he comprehended the futility of his words. His gaze was straying to those who had died, and the regret on his young face was vast. He clearly felt he was being irresponsible if he was not helping to right all wrongs at once.  
  
“We are scholars, not warriors. And all things considered I think we gave a fairly good account of ourselves. But the enemy is routed, and now is time for rest,” Erestor said quietly, turning the young master's gaze back to meet his with a gentle clasp of his chin.  
  
“But—”  
  
“—There is no more arguing.”  
  
And Elrohir did not.  
  
       The walk back to Elrond's quarters seemed to take an inordinate amount of time, and when the councilor finally opened those heavy, mahogany wood doors; it revealed a surprisingly domestic scene.  
Maglor was asleep in a chair by a crackling fire, his harp tucked under his chin.   
  
Elladan was stretched upon the nearby sofa like a well-sated cat, and on the opposite side of him, crammed half-on half-off a narrow bench, Glorfindel was snoring quietly. The peace in the room was only broken by the thud of the door shutting; and at the sound the seneschal jerked awake with a snort, hand going for a sword that was no longer at his side.   
  
“Erestor?” he rumbled.  
  
“I have returned,” the councilor said. “I will draw Elrohir a hot bath.”  
  
“I do not need a bath, I am not a child, and I do not need assistance,” the younger twin snapped wearily.  
  
“Just accept it, brother,” Elladan murmured from the couch, one drowsy eye opening. “The hot water will feel good. You deserve it.”  
  
Elrohir might have said something petty in that moment, but Erestor guided him away before he could do anything he might regret. Sleep and a good rest would go a long way to restoring everyone's morale. Or so the councilor hoped.  
  
“Where is my sister?” Elrohir asked as he was herded toward the bathing chamber.  
  
And the adviser winced.   
  
Or not.  
  
~*~  
  
       Thranduil's head was heavy against Legolas' shoulder, and the young Silvan was frightened for his father. He had not seen him like this since word had come back that his mother would not return. And the prince did not know what to say. Quietly he examined where a wound must have been, bow calloused fingers stroking the torn, blood soaked fabric of his sire's robes ... and finding only whole skin beneath.   
  
“What happened, Ada?”   
  
Thranduil made a sound of apology and grief, the words stuck in his throat. It embarrassed him that his son had to see him like this. But it … it had been too much. Even knowing that an attack at the front gate was imminent, the Sinda could not make himself rise to meet it.   
  
And Legolas knew better than to ask him to.  
  
~*~  
  
       Lindir stood at the fore of the battlefront. He had placed himself just before the bridge to the caverns, and the spirits and Silvan soldiers had dispersed to either side of him. The shades were not visible often, but they could be glimpsed from the corner of the eye as translucent blue lights twinkling within the shadows; and the scouts and hunters that had started out into the treeline ahead of the minstrel seemed to have melted into the forest. But Lindir knew that both parties were there.  
  
Elrond stood at the minstrel's shoulder, sword drawn and gray eyes distant. The peredhel was listening for something that only he could hear, and the singer would not interrupt him. He was glad that his lord and love stood with him this time, for he did not think he could face a host alone … again.

And when he took a deep breath, letting it out in a silent sigh to calm his nerves, Lindir felt Elrond's hand clap to his shoulder.  
  
“Do not despair,” the master-healer said with a smile.  
  
Reassuring warmth flooded the bond they had formed, and despite his tendency to think the worst of any situation, the minstrel had to admit that things could be far more dire.  
  
“I will not. For you are here beside me.”  
  
The singer's words drew another wash of approval through their link. One that made Lindir's heart swell with joy. And as he turned his eyes back towards the road before him once more, he heard Beriadan's voice from above him.  
  
“Do not think you fight alone, I would not miss this opportunity for anything. And neither would my men.”   
  
The minstrel craned his neck to look behind and above himself, and there crouched the elf-captain, his archers disguised as part of the rock face. The only elves missing from the field of battle were Thranduil and Legolas, but Lindir would not expect anything from them. Not because he thought either incompetent in combat, but because they had taken grievous wounds to already heavy hearts. In their situation, the singer did not think he would be able to get back up.  
  
“Do not even worry about it,” Elrond said quietly.  
  
“Worry about what?” Lindir asked, confused.  
  
“Thranduil will be along,” the peredhel replied.  
  
“Was I that obvious?” The minstrel sounded both alarmed and off-put.   
  
“We share a bond, now. You were thinking loudly.”  
  
“Oh. I will have to be more careful in the future,” Lindir said, bowing his head slightly.  
  
“They come!” Beriadan called from above them, silencing any further discussion.   
  
All around him, Lindir heard the eerie creak of bows and the faint click of arrow shafts against rests. It was like the noise of a great tree's branches in a windstorm … and the minstrel drew his dagger.   
  
~*~  
  
       Maedhros was studying Haldir intently, green eyes narrowed in concentration. The advancing army of the Dark Lord, small though it had been, had contained creatures he had not beheld before on the shores of Arda. And he was concerned. Not just for himself, but for Arwen. Steadfast as she was, she had never seen combat.   
  
The son of Fëanor could feel in the trees, in the air. and water itself, that reinforcements were coming; and he was glad of it, for the small contingency he found himself within most likely would not be enough. Then again, sometimes a handful of well-trained soldiers could turn the tide of battle. He had seen it come to pass more than once.   
  
“Steady,” Haldir whispered hoarsely as a great spider passed before the company of the Galadhrim, its mandibles twitching in anticipation.   
  
They had not been noticed yet. No. There was a sort of single-minded expectancy to the march before them, and none within the host of the Golden Wood desired to tip their hand just yet.   
  
~*~  
  
       Lindir had lost track of how long he had been fighting. His arms were numb from the strike of steel on steel, and at times he feared that all was for naught. The enemy had crested upon them like a great wave, and were it not for Elrond at his side, he might have given up long ago. But desperation drove him, and time and again he found a clever way to turn aside or dodge a blow. He was aware that he could not keep this up forever. He also knew that if he gave up now, the bridge would fall, and so would the caverns; so the minstrel fought on.  
  
And just when he thought he could go no further, when he was too tired to lift his dagger to block one more goblin axe … a great roar came from behind the enemy. For an instant the singer feared that the army they were now combating had received reinforcements. Instead he saw the shining armor and standards of the Golden Wood flying high … and he could have wept.  
  
Then an idea came to him. A great and terrible idea. It was one that he had not considered in the furor of the throng around him; but now it was as clear as day. A song. A song to strengthen the bridge and give power to the shades that flickered in and out of the conflict around him.   
  
And reaching out one hand to brace himself against his lord's shoulder, reminding himself that his beloved was still with him … Lindir sang.  
  
~*~  
  
       Great spiders fell to arrows tipped in Ithildin. Goblins writhed and went down in heaps upon one another. Healers dashed in and out of the furor to help the wounded. And there seemed to be ghosts everywhere.   
  
Maedhros had never before experienced combat with the undead, not like this; and he was grateful that whoever was controlling the lost souls around him was on the side of the Greenwood. For the shades were vicious, without mercy, and they dispatched orcs and goblins like it was their last, lingering goal before fading. Not to mention that there was an aura about them that reminded him of Maglor, though he could not explain how that was so.   
  
Then there were the archers and hunters of the Greenwood, who fought like they were possessed; and never had the son of Fëanor seen such a fierce tribe among his kin; so he was careful to keep an eye on Arwen. Though watching her mounted combat skills, he was relieved to find that she had been well trained, and he need not have worried. She had slain her fair share of their foes, and by the time the last orc fell, crushed between the warriors of the Greenwood and the Golden Wood, she was just as fierce as any wild thing within the forest.  
  
“It is won!” Haldir shouted in the strange silence that followed, and the victory cry that sprang after those words made something in the red-haired warrior's stomach uncurl in relief.   
  
~*~  
  
       Lindir was walking among the dead; and in the process of nudging a severed spider limb out of the way with the toe of his boot, he caught a glimpse of familiar crimson hair among the reinforcements from Lothlórien. But it was not the sight of the son of Fëanor that nearly stopped the minstrel's heart in his chest. It was who sat mounted by his side. Arwen, upon Asfaloth. The purity of both beings in this dark place was incongruent with the scenery.  
  
Thranduil, who had appeared with Legolas at his side somewhere mid-skirmish, pulled his blade from a dead orc captain's chest as he followed Lindir's gaze.  
  
“My Lord,” Lindir began, reaching out to grasp Elrond's upper arm.   
  
“This should be interesting,” the Sinda murmured beneath his breath, straightening and drawing himself up to his full height.  
  
For who they all beheld could be none other that Maedhros Fëanorion, and beside him the Lord of Imladris' beloved daughter.  
  
~*~  
  
       Elrond sheathed his sword after wiping it clean on the hairy abdomen of a spider; and looking up, his gaze pursued Lindir and Thranduil's. There, amidst the milling warriors and busy healers, was a splash of copper-red that was not blood.  
  
And when the peredhel's eyes fell upon that noble face, he gasped—It could not be!— And he had taken no more than four steps towards Maedhros when he noticed his daughter standing in the warrior's shadow.   
  
That was when he began to run.  
  
He did not hear Lindir hurrying after him, nor Thranduil's laugh of disbelief. All other voices were lost beneath the wail of war-horns, and the rumble of nearby thunder; the skies themselves weeping from the tension of the day. And amidst the rain that began to pelt down, Elrond embraced his very surprised daughter, pulling her down from the saddle.  
  
Sheltering her with his body, Elrond could not stop kissing into her hair. He was furious that she was here … and relieved at the same time. She was safe. And somehow, some way, his foster-father had found his way to her side to protect her when Elrond could not; and the gratitude overflowed the peredhel's heart in a silent sob.  
  
“Arwen!” he gasped, unable to let her go even as she put her arms around his neck and buried her face into his blood-splattered shoulder.  
  
“She is safe,” Maedhros said, watching his son's eyes fill up with tears of relief. These were the first words the two of them had spoken after thousands of years of separation.  
  
And when gray collided fierce green, the red-haired warrior smiled encouragingly. “Greetings, Elrond. It is good to see you again, my son.”  
  
And in the rush of fast and emotional conversation that followed, no one noticed Lindir retreating with a bow, hand over his heart as he backed away into the throng.  
  
~*~  
  
       Lindir, taken aback, decided that there was one last thing to do while his lord was busy. Besides, he really did not want to introduce himself to the firstborn of Fëanor. For Maglor recognizing him after all this time had been one thing … but Maedhros? Lindir had come to fear the red-haired warrior the most out of all or his siblings. In a way the singer felt like he had been sold into his house, and had been a slave there.   
  
Those times had been dark, and now Lindir did not know what to think.  
  
Making his way back to the bridge, and the wards he had erected to protect it, the minstrel was surprised to find Thranduil and Legolas awaiting him. The elf-king greeted Lindir with a hand over his heart, as if he knew why the singer was really there.  
  
“Your wards have held spectacularly. You shall have to teach my minstrels this song,” Thranduil said, a new respect in his tone.   
  
“Doing so will give you the power to protect your people, though it is not from a Ring which it originates,” Lindir replied, no reverence to his tongue. He had still not fully forgiven the Sinda.  
  
“I always get what I want. I am patient,” the elf-king said, a pained half-smile turning up the corner of his mouth.   
  
And for the first time since meeting him, Lindir realized that the Sinda's words were teasing, not arrogant.  
  
“You will not get everything you desire today. For I must— ”  
  
“—I know,” Thranduil interrupted, “and I thank you for it. Please do not tarry. Set her free. Set them all free.” The expression on the elf-king's face was stoic, but determined.  
  
Lindir blinked as though he had been slapped, and his heart suddenly ached for the broken elf before him. In all the time he had known the Sinda … never had he said 'please'.  
  
“They go to a better place,” Lindir grudgingly reassured, watching silent tears track down Thranduil's face.  
  
“You think I do not know that? Get on with it!” the Sinda snapped, just before he turned away from the scene before him.   
  
But the singer forgave him his words. Had he to do this for Elrond, he was not so certain he could.  
  
The shades had all gathered, as beautiful as the day they had last been alive. They were still glowing golden with the power from Lindir's song, and their eyes were clear and bright.   
  
“I have never bound you to me, and you are unbound still,” the minstrel whispered. “Sing with me, and let your hearts carry you to the halls.” At that point, Lindir could not stop his tears, either. Yet he began to sing. And he put all the remaining strength he had into giving those without a voice freedom.   
  
The singer was so focused that he had no idea that he had gained an audience behind him; nor could he perceived the beauty of the magic that he was weaving. What he was doing felt as natural as breathing, and when the souls of the lost finally joined him in song, he felt nothing but relief for them. They were finally going home.  
  
One by one the spirits of Dagorlad began to fade away, shimmering off in a wave of golden light and leaving peace in their wake.   
  
When at last her turn came, Berelinil stepped forward. And using the last of her energy to become corporeal for a matter of heartbeats, she pressed a kiss to her son's forehead … then to her husband's lips. Yet as Thranduil reached out for her, his hands passed through her—and she tried to reach back— but before she could, she dispersed into a scintillation of energy, a smile on her lips.   
  
“Someday,” it seemed as if the wind had whispered the word.  
  
And Lindir fell to his knees, exhausted.  
  
~*~  
  
       Haldir was breathless. The marchwarden had never dared to hope for the souls of those he had loved and lost within the swamps; but for the first time, he wondered if he could. He also held a new respect for Thranduil, for he had never glimpsed the love the Sinda held for his lost wife. Berelinil had been a friend of Haldir's, and the day she had agreed to marry Thranduil and to leave the Golden Wood had been the beginning of her end as far as the marchwarden was concerned.

He had wanted to see the elf-king as an arrogant murderer who had not loved his wife or son.

But he had been wrong. The Galadhrim's heart was moved, and changed; and while he did not know if he cared for the feeling or could accept it, he found it inspiring. He had never seen a Singer at work before, and he had no idea that one could ever be so powerful. He felt that he was privileged to have witnessed such a work of compassion and beauty, and so did his men.   
  
A good half of his host had sat on the muddy ground to watch, the rain pelting down upon their upturned faces.  
  
~*~  
  
       Elrond left a stunned Maedhros' and Arwen's sides to put his arms around Lindir; helping to guide him up out of the dirt. And when the weary minstrel turned to bury his face into the peredhel's shoulder, Elrond was glad for it. He had sensed that his beloved had gone off to do something on his own, and now he knew why.   
  
It was not just avoidance of Maedhros—which the master-healer resolved to assuage any remaining fears the singer might have held—but the pain of facing something so strangely personal. In his many years, Elrond had never seen anything like what Lindir had just done. Then again, there had never before been cause for a singer to release trapped elf souls. The Dark Lord had twisted so much …  
  
“You are the most beautiful being I have ever beheld,” Elrond whispered softly, feeling Lindir shake with silent sobs. “And one of the most gifted. I love you, Lindir. I love you with all of who I am; and I will never leave your side.”  
  
“Can we go home now?” the minstrel whispered in reply, a blush staining his cheeks at his master's words, the publicity of their position, and his own inability to know what to say in response.  
  
“Yes, Melethen. I think it is time for us to go home.”  
  
There came the sounding of another war horn in the distance, and every elf present lifted their head to listen.   
  
“Reinforcements come from our Lady!” Haldir called happily.  
  
Yes. Help with repairs and the disposing of their enemies bodies would be welcome; and all that had taken part in the previous sortie had to admit they were exhausted. There was not an elf present that had not known one of the departed souls set free; and the day had come to a bittersweet, rain soaked end. **  
  
**~*~  
TBC  
~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Finally, the battle is (mostly) over. I'm anxious to get the next chapter out and am working on it right now :D Positive feedback and encouragement are appreciated <3 Thank you for reading!
> 
> I would like to add that I'm really not into criticism. Some things mentioned here are head-canon and not perfectly true to Tolkien. I'm writing this story for my own entertainment. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't, well, no one is making you read it and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you :D
> 
> Beta Credit: All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
> Zeta Reader: All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond begins to fade to his grief. Who will heal the healer? A story of things lost, and found.

 

 **Chapter Twenty-Four:** **  
  
**        The host of the Lord and Lady had settled at the front gates, and were currently busying themselves setting up camp. Seeing to the dead and the wounded was a large job that also made it difficult to hide the entrance to Thranduil's caverns. Then again, that location was no longer a secret to the enemy. Lindir's wards had helped, but there was no hiding a contingency so large.  
  
Thus, the concession was made that the front gates would remain open.  
  
Lindir was glad that the Galadhrim were there, as he was too tired to continue on. And even gladder that the Elf-king had swallowed his pride enough to allow help. So far there had been little animosity between the two factions. After all, they had once been more than grudging allies; and in that vein, Thranduil, exhausted though he was, had been surprisingly gracious as a host. Perhaps because help had been sorely needed, and the caverns had come perilously close to being overrun.  
  
By the time the hunters and warriors had retreated back within the caves, the company from Imladris with them, the singer was practically staggering. But there was a receiving hall deep within the winding, root-twined refuge. One that Lindir had never seen before. And that was where he and Elrond finally came to rest, the peredhel's good arm over his minstrel's shoulder as they bolstered one another. Maedhros had already settled Arwen to one of the nearby couches, and Lindir's gaze was riveted on the son of Fëanor. He could not take his eyes off of him. And it wasn't just with mistrust ... it was fear.  
  
While Arwen had been quick to find exhausted sleep, already dreaming beneath Maedhros' cloak, Lindir could not allocate the same level of trust or comfort to the situation. It was true that slumber was best, for the elleth had taken no notice of her father's injuries. And Lindir was glad for that. But his stomach kept clenching unpleasantly every time Maedhros so much as touched her, or lovingly adjusted her position.  
  
Elrond trusted his adopted father. And Lindir ... did not. Not yet. And certainly not with his lord's children. The minstrel was also not certain what the Evenstar was doing here, let alone how Glorfindel had let her out of his sight in the middle of a war. None had missed her ride for reinforcements. And while it hadn't been for naught, as another contingency of the Golden Wood was on its way to Rivendell, Arwen could have been waylaid and killed. Or worse. And the singer could easily empathize with Elrond's fear, seeing her appear in the middle of a skirmish in the Greenwood.  
  
Lindir frowned.  
  
And that frown deepened when Maedhros finally straightened and turned to face Elrond. As the tall elf strode across the chamber, Lindir instinctively put himself between his wounded master and the warrior. It was foolhardy, he knew, but he refused to back down even as terror raced up his spine. He could feel his master's good hand come to rest at his side, fingers spread and massaging comfortingly, trying to wordlessly encourage him to stand down. But Lindir would not. He was rooted to the spot, and was determined to protect his family as he should have from the start.  
  
The expression on the warrior's face was vulnerable when he paused in front of the lovers, countenance humble and penitent. Which was not what Lindir had expected from—nor recalled being native to—Maedhros' temperament. Thus, the singer's confusion multiplied. And when the red-head moved to raise his hands placatingly in front of him, the minstrel nearly drew his dagger.  
  
Only Elrond's arm coming around his waist gave him pause. And a moment later, so did the son of Fëanor's words.  
  
“Now, is this not familiar?” Maedhros asked, brow quirked wryly and sorrow in his tone.  
  
Lindir swallowed hard. Centuries ago he had failed to do what he should have. He had watched Maglor and Maedhros coming for Eärendil's sons, and he had stood by, rooted to the spot in terror. The aspect of fear had certainly not changed, but the determination in the singer's heart … that was another matter entirely. Had Maedhros truly seen him centuries past? Could he possibly remember one lone harper among so many lives taken, and shattered?  
  
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Lindir replied, face pale and expressionless.  
  
“I remember your gaze, Minstrel,” Maedhros said. “I could never forget it.”  
  
Elrond made a sound of confusion behind Lindir.  
  
“You were but a child in Finrod's court when you first came to my notice. And an uncertain sire when I sacked the Havens. But I will never forget your eyes. The betrayal in them is what stayed my hand long before Elros' fierce display, or my brother's words. And that is saying much, for I had no conscience, then,” Maedhros continued.  
  
Lindir well recalled Elros' small, trembling hand holding out that blood-stained dagger. How his grip had wavered as innocence faded, and the harsh reality of life and death had taken hold. The singer could remember his hatred in that moment. Not for all the lives taken. Not for the war against kin. It was for something simpler, and deeper. Once the concept of home had been lost to a child, there was no regaining it. In some ways, death was kinder than such a fate.  
  
“You were a monster. You slaughtered your own kin in your father's name, for greed and the lie of an Oath. You would even have killed elflings if it would have put you closer to what you sought. You were remorseless. How can you be different now? The leopard does not change his spots,” Lindir snapped.  
  
“Lindir,” Elrond murmured, his tone one of shock.  
  
Maedhros began to look uncomfortable, shifting from one foot to the other. “I was a fool. Throwing away my life for the approval of a sire who could only love himself. When I finally realized what I had done … I could not bear it. I ended my own life in grief and suffering, and in the vain hope that I would still be keep my word that way. I no longer wanted to hear the cries of the innocents I had slaughtered in my dreams. But even death could not free me. Do you know what did? Do you know what made me a better sire? It was not my time in the Halls. It was not the forgiveness of the Lady of the Stars, or the countless souls that I came to an accord with before my rebirth. It was not being released from Mandos to a father who was a changed elf, nor his approval and my mother's love. It was not even coming home after being outcast for so long. Do you know what it was?”  
  
Lindir's posture had not changed, but his expression had softened. It was the saving grace of a singer to listen with the heart as well as the ear.  
  
“It was Elrond and Elros. It was love. I learned how to love. Two elflings taught me of the existence of gentleness, kindness, and forgiveness. Eärendil's treasure was not his Silmaril. It was his sons. I stole something so much more precious that night, even though I did not see or comprehend it at first. I do now. And I also see that at last, you do, too.” Maedhros' eyes were filled with a kind of profound understanding when he reached out to rest his restored hand on the minstrel's shoulder.  
  
While Lindir did not flinch away, he did feel numb. In a way, he wanted to hate Maedhros for ripping him open and spilling out his carefully kept secrets. In another, he wanted to be closer. The warrior was still oddly charismatic, and had a way about him that filled others with energy and confidence. There was also a strange relief in laying down the heavy mantle of secrecy; and the singer was finding that once exposed to the light of day, his past did not seem to hold half as much power over him as it had when closeted away.  
  
It took him some time, but at last Lindir stepped to one side; hand still on his dagger hilt. It was a hesitant concession, but at least it was one. And when Maedhros' hand fell away, the tingling warmth of his touch was nearly as foremost in the minstrel's mind as his lord's confusion and distress through their bond. The singer did not know how he could fix what had just been broken. He could only tell the truth and end his silence. But there were no words that could express what had come to pass, and he did not want to behold the look that he knew he would find on Elrond's face.  
  
~*~

      Elrond's gray eyes were wide, and he was looking back and forth between Maedhros and Lindir as if he could scarcely believe what he was recalling. Then again, the entire day had been full of surprises.  
  
“It was you?” the peredhel whispered thickly. His expression and tone gradually growing more resolute. “It _was_ you.” There was a very long pause, in which neither Maedhros nor Lindir moved. “It has _always_ been you. Watching over me from the shadows, and protecting me.”  
  
A heartbeat later, Elrond wrapped his arms heedlessly around Lindir and hugged him fiercely; kissing into that silky chestnut hair as if he might lose the slighter minstrel if he did not hold tightly enough.  
  
And while the singer’s secret was out, he could not find it in himself to continue despising Maedhros. The son of Fëanor had found a way to give back what he had taken. Lindir had finally been allowed to come home again, even though he had not believed such a thing possible. And slowly, the minstrel put his arms around Elrond in return, his tears dampening his lord's blood-splattered shoulder as he held him equally close. “I love you,” he murmured vulnerably. “ … but it is your father that you need now.”

Although it might have taken the peredhel some time, he did eventually release Lindir. And his heart was in his throat as he watched his lover stride reluctantly from the room into the hall, sparing one last nervous glance over his shoulder at Maedhros.  
  
~*~  
  
       Beriadan's hand stroked Feren's hair back. The attendant was still limp against the cot in the healer's ward, but his color was improving. The blow had been to body as well as Fëa, and such things took a good deal of time to heal.  
  
“This was me, a handful of days ago. It is a lonely place,” the captain said quietly.  
  
Legolas rested a hand on his beloved's shoulder, and smiled for him as best he could.  
  
“We will see to it that he is not too lonely,” the prince replied, sitting to the edge of the cot and beside his beloved.  
  
“Should you not be with your father?” Beriadan worried, though he leaned back into his prince so the younger elf did not think that his presence was being rejected.  
  
“No. He does not desire company right now. I will give him time. I must admit I cannot fathom how much he suffers. I miss her, too. And to have seen her face again was bittersweet. I wish that I could go to her,” Legolas admitted, getting a startled glance from Beriadan.  
  
“Please, My Heart, do not ...”  
  
“I would not. Beriadan, my heart longs for something. Something far away that I have never beheld. But I would not leave my people for it. At least, not yet. I do not know what the future holds, or where fate may take me. But I think that my time here grows short,” Legolas murmured.  
  
Beriadan looked grieved in that moment, but then a brave smile crossed his face. He, too, hoped someday to leave the shadows of the Greenwood behind.  
  
“The day you go, I shall set sail with you. I would have it no other way,” the captain said.  
  
Legolas' only response was to steal a tender kiss in the quiet, letting it drive out the pain, loss, and darkness as only Beriadan's touch could.  
  
~*~  
  
       Elrond and Maedhros faced one another; both watching the door to the hall close behind Lindir, then making certain that Arwen slept on undisturbed. But when the two elves finally made eye contact again, the peredhel was still too shaken to speak.  
  
“I am sorry,” Maedhros began, breaking the silence. Recalling the night at the Havens had not done his son any favors. Nor had the multiple shocks that the day had brought.  
  
“Do not be,” Elrond finally replied. He wanted to throw his arms around Maedhros' neck as he had when he was an elfling. He wanted to hold him just as tightly as he had Lindir. But the peredhel was frightened that this was yet another dream or vision. That Maedhros would disappear the moment he touched him. “Is this real?”  
  
“As real as that wound on your arm, Ionen,” Maedhros replied.  
  
Elrond looked down. His forearm was dripping blood onto the floor again, and he shook his head in frustration.  
  
“Your minstrel has the power to mend that. He always has. Even now, when he is weary. You have to trust him to do it, though. You have to believe enough for the both of you,” Maedhros encouraged, taking care with Elrond's pride.  
  
“Believe? What is there to believe in!” Elrond surprised himself with the heat of his words.  
  
“The Valar are real, Elrond. They have returned me to you, and to Maglor. I have much to do here in Arda. But it is you I have been sent to serve. Your sons are well, by the way.”  
  
The peredhel stood in stunned silence, fists clenching and loosening as he worked that concept over.  
  
“They also sent Glorfindel back to you. I hope you have not forgotten. Námo has suggested that you keep him. His tales when inebriated are apparently … repetitive,” the warrior's tone was wry, trying to lighten some of the seriousness of the moment.  
  
“If the Valar are real, they care nothing for those like me. At best, they are using me! Even now I play into some scheme that will only bring more suffering. And there is nothing I hate more as a healer. I hope you know that,” the peredhel growled.  
  
“It is good to be angry, Elrond. Even if it is irrational, it is passion. And we need much of that if we are to survive Sauron's onslaught.”  
  
“I cannot …” Elrond's voice broke, and his shoulders slumped. “I cannot do this again.” Anger faded quickly to despair.  
  
“Tonight, Ionen, you do not have to. Let me help. Let Lindir help. Accept what is being offered to you. It is not a trick. I am here. Maglor guards your city with his life. It is not over. It is beginning. And there is hope, though fate is all but sand which has run through our fingers. The Valar trust you with us. And we trust you.”  
  
“Then for the love of Varda, _please_ do something!” Elrond snapped, brow furrowed as his pain threatened to overwhelm him yet again.  
  
“I will, Ionen,” Maedhros promised, closing the distance between them and wrapping his arms around his son.“You are loved. Please remember that. Our love and faith—the faith of your family, friends, and people—is stronger than your grief. It just does not seem that way at the moment.”  
  
~*~  
  
       Lindir could feel the change in Elrond's mood through the bond that they shared. Their Fëa union was something that he had sampled before, and tested in the way that only a singer could; yet he remained uncertain about it. It was strangely intimate, too much so, and even now he could feel a flood of memories crossing his Lord's heart and mind ... which he believed he should not be privy to. He could also sense Maedhros as if the other elf's arms were around him. Such observations only served to reinforce that Elrond needed this time. That no one should interfere. But that did not mean it didn’t hurt, or feel as if the minstrel had been dismissed somehow. And sliding silently down the heavy wooden door, Lindir could not bring himself to stay, or to leave.

With a swallowed sob, the singer pressed his cheek to the wood as he might Elrond's chest. He so longed to be closer, and he was weary. The day had tested and frightened him in more ways than he could properly express; and thus overwhelmed, he sat there for what felt like ages. Listening to Elrond weep against Maedhros' shoulder, while wishing that he could, too. But that was not what a good attendant did.  
So he waited to be called upon, while turning over a few ideas. One being that ... if he could save the Greenwood … he had to be able to mend his master's hurts.  
  
~*~  
  
       “Minstrel. You can come back in. It is not like I can heal his arm, or hold his heart as you do,” Maedhros deep voice came at ear height from the crack in the door, and Lindir reared back in shock. The warrior was crouching on the other side, and had caught the singer dozing. He also sounded fairly smug about it.  
  
Lindir, however, was too busy shaking to be incensed. But by some stroke of luck he managed to compose himself before the door swung open; and when his honey-brown eyes finally met Maedhros' intense green, he felt his previous exhaustion and anxiety flee. The taller elf looked like he was actually relieved to see him. It was good to know he was needed—the red-head's questionable sense of humor aside—and he was even gladder to be allowed to return to his lord.  
  
Besides, if Maedhros said that Lindir was the only one who could heal Elrond, then it had to be so. In this much, the singer believed the son of Fëanor. The only problem was that elation was fighting with insecurity. Today he could not look to Maglor for help, and the mere thought of being responsible for the healing of one of the best master healers in all of Arda left him moderately intimidated. The fact that Elrond was his beloved was a close second.  
  
~*~  
  
       Maedhros had settled to one of the open couches of the receiving hall, and Elrond had been persuaded to stretch out the length of the cushions; head resting on his foster-father's thigh. The peredhel's eyes were tear-swollen and red-rimmed, but there was no missing the content underlying the strain. Elrond had needed Maedhros, as much as it pained Lindir to admit that.  
  
Catching himself in distraction, the minstrel gave himself a mental shake to return to the task at hand. He could not let his mind wander when he faced the last vestiges of their enemy. Elrond's bleeding arm lay cradled against his chest, the bandages undone; and the singer was kneeling beside the the two elf lords, uncertain of where to begin. The stone floor was digging into his knees, and his body was already heavy with exhaustion, but somehow he would have to find a way to make things right.  
  
Without really meaning to, Lindir looked up to the son of Fëanor.  
  
Unlike Elrond, who was probably just as apprehensive as his minstrel, Maedhros looked untroubled and confident as he reached out to clasp his son's elbow. The darkness that roiled within the wound on the peredhel's forearm did not seem to like that, though, appearing just as eager to escape as Lindir was to banish it. And Elrond groaned. The injury had needled him through most of the battle, and was no better now. If anything, Maedhros touch seemed to drive fear into the darkness and increase its activity.  
  
Green eyes gazed calmly back into Lindir's pained brown. The minstrel could not stand to see his lord hurting like this. And despite his aloof expression, Lindir knew that Maedhros hated it, too.  
  
“You can do this. I have faith in you,” the warrior said honestly. And there might have been the hint of a father's desperation in his countenance.  
  
It had taken the three elves the better part of an hour to persuade each other that they could be rid of the evil in the wound. If the minstrel was frank, he was certain that Maedhros had a much better idea of what was about to happen than he did. And that no one was going to enjoy this experience.  
  
Elrond, on the other hand, had been … surprisingly trusting. Then again, with Maedhros stating he would remove the limb if it became too fractious, the peredhel had agreed to try anything that did not involve amputation, first. And while Lindir still questioned the son of Fëanor's sense of humor—it might have been doing some good.  
  
“My Lord, would you not rather Maglor did this?” Lindir asked, wiping a rivulet of blood off of the peredhel's forearm with his sleeve.  
  
“Lindir,” Elrond said, voice ragged with pain. “No matter what happens, you have my complete forgiveness and appreciation. I know you can do this. But if something bad does happen, I promise I will meet you on the far shore.”  
  
Those words gave the singer further pause.  
  
“You believe ...” Lindir began.  
  
“... I believe that if the Valar brought us together after all that has happened, they will do so again. But that will not be necessary. You can make this right. Though, if you would, please hurry?” Elrond whispered, his voice growing faint.  
  
Maedhros was obviously putting on a strong front, but there was a hint of fear in his eyes as he drew Elrond closer to his body. “He is getting colder. Lindir, please?” the warrior murmured thickly.  
  
The singer nodded. Moving nearer he put an arm around the peredhel's waist, and nodded again. Yes. His lord was growing chill to the touch. They had no more time left to talk. Leaning forward, he pressed his forehead to his master's, first letting their breath mingle. There was so much light between them, and in their bond, yet the minstrel could feel the darkness where it struggled to overcome that.  
  
/Not today,/ Lindir told the evil mentally. And before he could allow himself further self-doubt, he began to sing.  
  
As the minstrel's voice rose and fell, he pressed a kiss to Elrond's temple before laying his cheek on that lean chest. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on making their heartbeats one. Their breathing one.  
And when he finally fell silent, the whisper of that ancient song still on his lips, it was his Fëa that continued on.  
  
A universe of stars exploded across a dark lake in front of him, and Lindir walked upon the surface of the still water. It was his heart that guided him, for he knew where his beloved was. He could not miss the pulse of light in the distance. And as he crossed the expanse, feet barely making a ripple on still onyx, dark tendrils roiled beneath the surface. But Lindir was light, was the stars and the power of love itself. They could not touch him, and they fell away as quickly as they reared up.  
  
And when the minstrel came upon him, Elrond lay slumped, weeping and slipping slowly from the surface into the darkness below. The water had become inky vines that clasped at his injured arm, pulling the peredhel down into the depths.  
  
Anger sparked in Lindir’s chest, and as the singer drew his dagger, he found a crystalline blade in his hand instead. He was only briefly surprised, for he knew it for what it was. It was an extension of his Fëa, of the strength of his heart and the love of the Valar, and he no longer hesitated. Grasping his sinking master's good hand, he pulled with all of his might while slashing at tendrils; and everywhere his blade struck, the evil writhed away.  
  
When at last he held Elrond in his arms, safe atop the water and out of the churn below; only one vine remained. It was thicker and darker than the rest, and it was dug into flesh, trying to claw it's way up his lord's arm from the inside.  
  
Elrond was in agony, and there was only one thing that the singer could think to do.  
  
Apologizing under his breath, Lindir grasped the limb. Before he could further ponder his actions, he drove the sword directly through the peredhel’s forearm, and the tendril therein. What ensued was much like an explosion, and Lindir wrapped his Fëa around his master to protect him as best he could. The stars shattered, the darkness shrieked and roiled away, and when he came to his senses again, Elrond was screaming hoarsely in his ear. Maedhros had his arms around them both, and Elrond had Lindir wrapped in a death grip. The singer could not open his eyes, but he could taste blood in his mouth. He was caught somewhere between the stars and Arda, and he was shaking.  
  
“Hold him,” a voice came close to Lindir's ear.  
  
Sound was fading in and out, “Where did all this blood … who is … A mess.”  
  
Then there was gray.  
  
~*~  
  
      When Lindir woke again, his head was in Arwen's lap. It took him a moment to grasp this, and that he was somehow … miraculously alive.  
  
“Elrond!” the minstrel gasped, trying to sit up. But soft, gentle hands guided him back down.  
  
“Safe. He is safe. He is beside you and safe,” Arwen whispered.  
  
Lindir's eyes fluttered open the rest of the way, and it took him some time to take stock of his body, his surroundings, and that … he was warm. Elrond was curled up against his side.  
  
“We did not move him. He cried for you when we tried to separate you,” she continued fondly.  
  
Rolling slowly onto his hip, the singer took in a sharp breath at the pain that lanced through his body. His head ached fiercely, and Arwen's thigh was the place it stayed as he slowly pulled Elrond closer to his chest, feeling the urgency to protect him even now.  
  
“That is much better, is it not?” Arwen asked, pulling the blanket further up around the minstrel, and her father's shoulders. “His arm is much improved, too. No more darkness. It will need to heal, but his body can do that now that whatever was within has been … evicted,” she said, blue eyes taking in Lindir's dazed expression.  
  
“It is gone?” he whispered.  
  
“It is gone, and his hurts can now mend. You have a matching dagger wound on your forearm on the same side, though.” Arwen sounded mystified.  
  
“I … what?” Lindir asked again, this time pulling his arm out from under the blankets and from around Elrond's shoulder. There was a bandage there, and the heavy scent of Athelas in the air.  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“Maedhros said that you pulled your dagger, and stabbed Adar through the forearm. When you did, an answering cut opened up on you as well. There was blood everywhere, and when he shouted the guard rushed in to find … a mess. There was an explosion of some kind, and that was what woke me.”  
  
Her words held some reproach, and the singer, could not blame her. No one had been honest with her about her father's condition.  
  
“We did not want to trouble you ...” Lindir said humbly, hesitantly lifting the edge of the blanket to find his lord's arm bandaged yet again, and most heavily in the place that matched his own.  
  
“It was hard to sleep through what you did,” she said sadly, then leaned down to kiss the singer's forehead.  
  
“How long have I ...”  
  
“A few hours. Dolnith checks on you both frequently.”  
  
“Oh,” Lindir said unintelligently.  
  
~*~  
  
       Erestor gave the parchment a finally wave to make certain that the ink was dry. Then, carefully rolling it, he wrapped it in a wax coated piece of leather and tied it to the raven's leg with a linen thong. The bird crowed raucously and hopped up and down in excitement, and Glorfindel offered it out a piece of dried venison to reward it for being—somewhat— cooperative.  
  
“That should cover it, I hope,” the councilor said, rubbing his temple lightly.  
  
“You think she has made it safely?”  
  
“Would that she has, despite your foolishness,” Erestor bit out, making Glorfindel flinch.  
  
“I told you that I was sorry.”  
  
“‘Sorry’ is not nearly good enough! Sorry covers your incessant tales about your Balrog slaying adventures when you are drunk. Sorry does not cover sending the Lord Elrond's youngest child off into the fray.”  
  
“I thought to get her far from the city, and combat.”  
  
“It was not a wise move,” Erestor snapped.  
  
“It was a calculated risk, Melethen. She is her mother's daughter. The only way to keep her from trouble was to give her something to do. And it was of great importance. We do need Lord Elrond to return.”  
  
“We are doing well enough.”  
  
Erestor sounded thoroughly insulted now. But Glorfindel recognized it for what it was. Exhaustion.  
  
“Come to bed, My Heart. Let our raven friend go about his business, and we shall finally retire for some much needed sleep. The guard is taking shifts, we have seconds in place, our defenses remain high, and we will continue to see to the repairs when we are rested. That, and the Golden Wood is not far from our doorstep, they shall be here by the morn'.”  
  
“Why do you have to sound so damned rational?!” Erestor snapped, tears forming at the corner of his eyes.  
  
“Come to bed,” Glorfindel repeated, scooping the slighter elf up out of his chair and into his arms.  
  
Normally, the dignified councilor would have protested this. Instead, he cuddled closer with an worn-out sigh. “They will be here by the morn'?”  
  
“They will. Celeborn's people travel swiftly.”  
  
~*~  
TBC  
~*~  
  
A/N: Moving right along!  :D Positive feedback and encouragement are appreciated <3 Thank you for reading!

I would like to add that I'm really not into criticism. Some things mentioned here are head-canon and not perfectly true to Tolkien. I'm writing this story for my own entertainment. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't, well, no one is making you read it and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you :D

 **Beta Credit: All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn**  
**Zeta Reader: All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser**


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond begins to fade to his grief. Who will heal the healer? A story of things lost, and found.

**Chapter Twenty-five:**  
  
       Elrohir sat elbow deep in paperwork. Scroll upon scroll was waiting for his attention, and he rubbed his tired eyes. A headache was brewing, and were it not for Maglor pressing a mug of tea into his aching hand, he might have dropped his quill.  
  
“Elrohir, it will be well. Come away from the desk,” the minstrel admonished quietly.  
  
The peredhel looked up to him, expression lost; and his gray eyes were plaintive when he glanced back to the documents again. “I have not responded to the traders who asked us if we needed more supplies. They are awaiting my raven,” he said, a tremble to his voice.  
  
“They can wait a while longer. I know that Erestor relegated you to desk work, but this is not the only way you can care for Imladris while she is healing,” the minstrel said solemnly.  
  
“What do you mean?” Elrohir asked. He had gotten enough sleep, but the sheer amount of work he still had to do was staggering.  
  
“Walk with me,” Maglor replied mysteriously.  
  
Wiping down and setting aside his quill, the peredhel rose stiffly. The previous day's combat and hard manual labor had left him aching. War, he decided, was for fools. And clutching his mug, he followed after the singer, expression curious as they wended their way through the outer libraries.  
  
Maglor then led them into the maze of Imladris' marble halls, and down a spiraling set of steps toward one of the untouched gardens at the lower levels of the house. This had been the lady's space, and it had luckily avoided being ravaged by combat. Once standing between the entrance pillars, Elrohir looked around him, expression stricken. He had not visited these gardens since his mother had died, but he had played here often as an elfling.  
  
“Maglor, what are we ...” Elrohir began, and he might have said more, but the skies above him opened up and rain began to fall. He startled when the first fat drops hit his tunic, warm, but surprisingly pleasant. And as the low hanging clouds grumbled, he finally thought to cover his mug of tea with his hand.  
  
“Come and sit,” Maglor replied, settling to one of the nearby benches.  
  
Elrohir eventually obeyed, even though he was still not certain about what they were doing.  
  
As he watched, Maglor turned his face up to the deluge—for that was what it had become—and as the rain drenched him, the minstrel took a deep breath.  
  
… Time seemed to slow in the gardens. In that moment, which felt like it would last forever, Elrohir was aware of every detail. The sound of the unkempt roses drinking up the water, the rain splashing on each and every petal and leaf. The scent of hot, wet earth, and … snow. The downpours that came down from the mountains always carried a part of that cold wildness with them, even if they were warm by the time they poured down onto Imladris.  
  
The rain was part of everything, and each drop was like the tears that Elrohir could not shed. Tears for those lost in the assault, for his father, and for his mother's death. Each drop of water would eventually end up at the Ford as part of what had protected the city from harm. Each drop was cleansing the smell of goblins, death, and darkness from the Homely House. The peredhel didn't have to do anything.  
  
All good things seemed to happen in their own time.  
  
And when Maglor's arms came around him, and the minstrel's lips finally met Elrohir's, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world.  
  
Elrohir barely remembered to set his mug aside before his tongue was skating along Maglor's, his lips trembling as they shared a breath. And as he tangled his fingers in that soaked, inky hair, he could feel the minstrel's scarred palms where they brushed the nape of his neck; returning the favor and pulling them closer together.

When their kiss finally broke, the peredhel began to weep. He had never needed someone so much. And while he should have been surprised, he found that he wasn't at all. What was best for Imladris was a happy lord, and with happiness at her heart, things in Arda would mend with time.  
  
~*~  
  
       Elladan stared out over the balcony railing, unable to believe what he was seeing. His mouth hung open, and when he turned around in shock, Erestor's expression was as unreadable as his was scandalized.  
  
“Come along, there is nothing for you to see,” the councilor said, grabbing the peredhel by the nape of his tunic and marching him along for several steps.  
  
“In the garden … my brother … Maglor ...” Elladan was spluttering, caught between a strange sense of betrayal and loneliness.  
  
“What your brother chooses to do, and what his heart does, are not things that we can change. If you love him, you must let him grow apart from you. It hurts, but it is time.” Those words seemed to cost Erestor, but when Elladan tried to turn around to go back, the councilor still bodily blocked his way.  
  
There were tears in Elladan's eyes, and Erestor wiped them away with his thumb. “You are not alone, Elladan. Your brother still loves you. But the two of you are not children anymore, and you must learn that love does not extend to only one being, but to several. Your heart has many rooms for love, and within those rooms there are different kinds. I know it hurts. But I promise you, it will all be well sooner than you think.”  
  
The peredhel shook his head and swallowed hard against his pain. Then, very slowly, he rested his forehead to the top of Erestor's shoulder, leaning close and allowing the councilor to hug him as he had when when was an elfling. He was taller now, but that did not matter.  
  
“Breathe, Elladan. Breathe and let the rain soothe you. You are loved, and someday very soon ...” Erestor couldn't bring himself to say what his heart was certain of. The worry cut off his words.  
  
~*~  
  
       Elrond and Lindir lay in the quietest part of the healer’s ward. Maedhros had retreated for some sleep, taking Arwen with him, and elves had come and gone all day. Haldir had also stopped in to meet with the master healer; an affair which had concluded in yet another nap. But now that Elrond was awake again—as was Lindir—the peredhel could not get over what had finally come to his attention.  
  
Searching his memories, painful though it was, Elrond found truth. He remembered things dully, as he had compartmentalized so many hurts, but it was undeniable. Lindir had been there when the Havens had burned, and had always managed to find a way to his side since then.  
  
Fate had brought them together time and again, and holding the singer was like holding part of his past that he had thought forever lost. Stroking those high cheekbones with a swollen hand, Elrond smiled contentedly.  
  
Drowsy honey-brown eyes met the peredhel's—the same gaze that Maedhros had remembered just as surely—and tenderly Elrond leaned in to kiss that pale forehead. “I am so proud of you, my beloved. I am so proud of you, and all that you have done today. I long thought powers like yours faded or dead. So, to see what you have done, and the peace you have brought ... it takes my breath,” he whispered.  
  
Lindir did not answer him, but his expression softened further; and despite blushing to the tops of his ears from the kiss and compliments, he pulled Elrond closer.  
  
This time that they spent on two rickety cots pushed together was exactly what they needed. That, and a few more cakes that would be forthcoming soon, according to Dolnith.  
  
~*~  
  
        It was fair to say that neither Elrond nor Lindir had their strength back, but Dolnith had finally allowed them to leave the healer’s quarters. That was, as long as they promised to return to their borrowed room and rest. The caverns were still abuzz with activity, and the majority of the Malledhrim were too busy with repairs and aid to be concerned with the comfort of guests. Thus, Lindir found himself having to step out to locate more food and bandages. This left Elrond with time to speak to Arwen, who had accompanied them out of worry. And the peredhel found himself grateful for her company, even if she was clinging close.  
  
“A raven arrived from Erestor,” she said, breaking the stillness with a smile. She then handed over the parchment she had been carrying.  
  
Elrond took the scroll with a look of trepidation, but quickly opened it to read it. As he did, the tension left his shoulders.  
  
“Everyone is well,” he said quietly. “We had few losses, and the Golden Wood has arrived quickly. The Lord and Lady's reinforcements are helping with restoration and healing, and Erestor has inquired about your health. And Lord Maedhros'.” Elrond smiled ruefully. “Apparently your brothers gave a good account of themselves, and soon Imladris will be fully orc and goblin free. The bodies were piled and burned on the other side of the Ford.”  
  
Elrond's hands trembled slightly, and Arwen's soft and gentle ones moved to cover them.  
  
“Adar,” she began quietly. “It will be well. I know it. You have always surrounded yourself with the best of allies, and they have come through for you in time of need. Imladris is safe. I need not have made the ride,” she laughed, relief in her tone.  
  
“Before this onslaught began, I swore that I would ride to Celeborn and give him word of trouble. But it seems that will no longer be necessary,” Elrond said ruefully, shaking his head.  
  
“If you require an excuse to visit grandmother, you need not go to such lengths,” Arwen teased, watching her father's eyes fill with amusement for the first time since her mother died. At least, that she recalled.  
  
“This is true,” Elrond replied, brows raised in assuagement. He then pulled Arwen into his arms where she rested contentedly.  
  
She had bounced back from her ride, but Elrond had not.  
  
“I am sorry that I frightened you. Please do not be angry with Glorfindel. He was trying his best to protect me,” Arwen said wearily. She had slept, too. But when Maedhros had risen to help the guard, she had awoken and insisted on checking on her father. So here she was, even if she still needed a dozen more hours of proper slumber. Just like everyone else.  
  
~*~  
  
       Lindir paused at the point where two intersecting pathways met near the lower halls. This was the section closest to the hot springs. The minstrel had been going to retrieve some food from the kitchens, which were on the same level … and the opposite direction. But he had changed course.  
  
Something had drawn him here, though he could not explain it. Part of him had thought that maybe he still needed to free a shade, or that some errant Fëa was lingering from the combat that had taken place nearby. But neither of those things turned out to be the case.  
  
Instead, he found himself staring at Thranduil as his eyes adjusted to the low light.  
  
The elf-king had his back to him, and was looking in the direction of the water, his expression lost. He had one ring bedecked hand resting upon a pillar for support, and even his robes seemed limp and listless. It was not a good sign.  
  
The singer took a deep breath—knowing he was going to hate himself—and then slowly approached. Setting his basket of bandages and salve down by the side of the path, he descended the curve of a tree root, noiselessly making his way to the Sinda's side.  
  
He stood beside him for several minutes; saying nothing, but taking measure. And when Thranduil finally turned to make eye contact, Lindir smiled pleasantly.  
  
“You are up. This is good,” the minstrel said, refusing to be cowed while trying to keep a positive attitude.  
  
Mercifully, it seemed that Thranduil did not have enough fight left in him to take offense. As a matter of fact, he seemed … diminished. There were strands of silver showing in that golden hair, and thin scars were starkly visible on his pale face. Lindir was seeing the elf-king without any glamour, and that made his stomach knot.  
  
“I am here,” Thranduil replied, sounding resigned. And when Lindir gave him an understanding nod, he continued, “...and I believe I owe you an apology.”  
  
Lightning seldom struck twice, so it was hard for Lindir to imagine that someone as proud as Thranduil would yield in any way. Yet it was happening. Or at least, it seemed to be.  
  
“Do not apologize to me. Apologize to your minstrels. To your people. I know you meant well. You always do. The issue is that you do not know what to do at times, other than to endure. In that, your sire did not set a good example. But, unlike him, _you_ are learning.” It was bold of him to say such things, but he knew better than to pull his punches with Thranduil. The elf-king would not let himself be coddled.  
  
“I had forgotten, Singer, the power of song. Song battle was not something unheard of in my youth. Yet I thought it dead, gone, and lost to elf-kind as we fade on this bygone shore. I was wrong. _We_ would not be here today were it not for your actions. Your bravery.”  
  
“I am not brave, I promise you that.” Lindir blinked in surprise.  
  
“If you are not brave, than I am no King,” Thranduil retorted, a strange candor in his words.  
  
Being and feeling were two different things, and Lindir could easily acknowledge that.  
  
“I have much to learn, just like you,” Lindir replied. Allowing himself to be as honest as he could while guarding his step.  
  
“Then learn through teaching. Teach my people how to live again, and how to protect themselves. There are things here that I cannot change. But you can do what I cannot. You can show them their own way to hope and light.”  
  
“I will do so, if you will allow it,” Lindir said, heart beating fast. He would take this chance. For Rostlas, for Beriadan and Legolas. For every frightened elf within the depths of Thranduil's caverns.  
  
“I thought you were not brave?” Thranduil said, a hint of a smirk turning up the corner of his mouth.  
  
“I thought you were no king?” Lindir gave the elf-king an outright grin.  
  
That reply made the Sinda laugh. The sound was rich in the quiet of the lower halls, and in a flash that glamour was back. Thranduil was as beautiful, golden, and untouchable as he had always been. And Lindir eventually joined him in relief.  
  
The very walls seemed to drink up the sound that was offered to them, and the air about the caverns warmed.  
  
~*~  
  
       Rostlas was sitting up, and Lindir stroked his hands across the other minstrel's bare chest. He had meant to return to Elrond and Arwen, but had stopped in at the healing ward instead. Not long after, he had sent another attendant to take the food and basket along to his lord; for Lindir well remembered his promise. And as minstrels and healers alike crowded around him, he began to sing. While it made him nervous to feel their eyes upon him, he carefully relayed what he had learned over the course of the last few weeks. Rostlas had agreed to be part of that example, and Lindir was pleased that the younger singer was still with them.  
  
Dolnith was more than glad to help him, but by the time Lindir had seen to the wounded in the ward and instructed the few minstrels that shared the same gift, the singer was ready to drop from exhaustion again. Of course, the last patient of the day would have been the young elleth who had survived the first shade attack. She had been difficult to comfort, but Rostlas, hale and hearty, was the one to bring her the most relief. The singer thought that was a good beginning, and somehow wasn't surprised that of all those inclined within Thranduil's halls, it was Rostlas who was showing the greatest promise.  
  
It was strange the way fate worked.  
  
Eventually, Lindir took his leave. But only after walking some of the older singers through setting up and maintaining wards. He had never felt so important before, and it was rare that another elf followed him about with quill and ink, writing down every instruction he gave. Let alone a dozen.  
  
There was one thing he had learned from all this, though. And that was how good it was to be a simple attendant. Even Lord Elrond's attendant. _Especially_ Lord Elrond's attendant.  
  
~*~  
  
Haldir was looking to Maedhros, who had finally sat down to the war-room table. The red-haired warrior appeared as calm as he always did, but there was a sparkle of knowing in those green eyes. The marchwarden did not like that one bit, and his temper teetered on a knife's edge.  
  
“It is strange, is not?” Maedhros asked, baiting just a little. His nature didn't allow for anything less.  
  
“What is?” Haldir snapped.  
  
“Once you see something, really see it with more than just your eyes … you cannot go back to being who you were before, nor thinking about it the same way.”  
  
“For you, I would wager that to be true,” Haldir stated, his tone slightly less needled and more haughty.  
  
“For more than just me. You see him with the eyes of your heart. It does not make you weak to admit you were wrong.”  
  
Haldir's expression darkened, and the Galadhrim turned to give Maedhros a full-on glare, “I suppose you fancy yourself a matchmaker now!?” he spat.  
  
“I suppose,” Maedhros paused to stretch disarmingly, “ ... that we should take care on these fronts, here.” He moved a few war tokens to various places on the map. “And that you, Marchwarden, should follow your heart. If there is one thing I regret, it is that I spent all of my time stubbornly mired in duty and war. You are part of your people, not a lone limb cut off from the tree of service. If anyone can help _him_ , you can.” The weary warrior stood, stifling another yawn with his restored hand. “I bid you a good night.” With that, Maedhros strode from the room to the sound of angry spluttering.  
  
And so Haldir stood, seething and staring down at the map table in shock. And long after Maedhros had taken his leave, all the Galadhrim could see was the lone gold token on the map. The marker that represented Thranduil. It had been moved to the center of everything else.  
  
~*~  
  
       Erestor was pacing again, and Glorfindel had finally had enough. Setting down his cup of tea, the Elda made his way to his beloved's side; and catching him about the waist, he guided them back to their bed.  
  
The councilor was long past making noises of protest, and the golden warrior began to rock him.  
  
“I should have interfered. What will Lord Elrond say? Elladan is so upset, and now he has no one to turn to,” Erestor lamented.  
  
“Elladan is loved. He has many friends, and a people who care deeply for him. He will be fine. After all, these sort of situations have a tendency to sort themselves given enough time.”  
  
“Like you and me?” Erestor asked, tone accusatory.  
  
“You and I are the exception to the rule. I am incredibly thick headed, and you are more stubborn than a dozen peredhil. You should consider yourself lucky that we are only responsible for the fate of four.”  
  
Erestor snorted, but instead of taking temper with the warrior's words, his expression softened and he laid his head against that broad shoulder.  
  
“Tell me this will work out in the end?”  
  
Glorfindel did not miss a single heartbeat before telling him that it would.  
  
And when Erestor finally slumped back to the blankets, the warrior followed him down, twining their hands so that he could run his thumb over the engagement ring he had adorned the councilor's finger with. It was important that neither of them forgot that they could rely on each other.  
  
~*~  
  
       Lindir's forearm felt like a cross between burning pain and a sharp scratch. Still, he gamely ran the comb through Elrond's hair, ignoring his own hurt as best he could. The day had been long, and all that had come to pass had blurred into one emotion: exhaustion. But the minstrel would not be deterred from his duty, and he felt positive that the Greenwood was about to change for the better.  
  
And ... he had been putting off any thoughts of himself. Things were undeniably different between attendant and master; a master who was now beloved. It was not easy to call Elrond by name instead of title, but the singer was getting better at it. Even if he did not have much faith in his ability to do so once they returned to Imladris.  
  
Home. Lindir's hands faltered, and suddenly he felt a deep ache under his ribs. They would finally be going home. But would the two of them, peredhel and singer, still fit in? Lindir had changed, and so had Elrond. Worse yet, some of Lindir's friends had died in the assault, and many of the buildings and surrounding land had been damaged. While the minstrel was stronger than he had ever been, he was not sure how it would feel to be back, or to face the places that he had passed through on their journey to Thranduil's caverns.  
  
“Lindir?” Elrond asked, interrupting the minstrel mid-thought.  
  
“Yes?” the singer replied, setting the comb aside.  
  
The peredhel turned until their gazes me.  
  
“Will you ride home with me?” he asked.  
  
Lindir was aghast. Had his emotions leaked through their bond in such a way that Elrond had misinterpreted …  
  
“Lindir?” Elrond asked again, a quaver in his voice.  
  
They had.  
  
“Of course I will!” Lindir exclaimed brightly. He could have kicked himself for making such a stupid mistake, and at such a pivotal moment.  
  
The look on Elrond's face was so forlorn that the minstrel could not help throwing his arms around the peredhel; who snuggled into the gesture desperately.  
  
“I am sorry, it is not you I question, but myself. I do not know how I will feel, or if I am strong enough to stand by your side before all of our city. I have … many questions. I am afraid you will not desire me or want me as you used to. You have healed so much, and perhaps you have outgrown your need for me.”  
  
Lindir was surprised at himself, that the words had even left his lips. But unlike any time before that he had blurted out his emotions, he was less afraid of hearing whatever Elrond had to say. And he did not automatically assume the worst.  
  
“You will not leave my side, will you?” Elrond asked vulnerably, answering a question with a question, as was his wont.  
  
“I would sooner tear my heart from my chest, Beloved.” Lindir's breathing quickened at the pain he felt through their bond. “I may not know how I will feel or react, but somehow I think that I will be right where I am supposed to be, when I am supposed to be there. And that means with you. You will show me how to be a worthy partner, and I will give you all that I am.”  
  
The singer might have said more, but then Elrond's lips were on his, and he could only think of one thing.  
  
How very perfectly the two of them fit together.  
  
~*~  
TBC  
~*~  
  
**A/N:** Why, the next chapter is going to have some prawn in it, first thing! ... And you know, some other awesome plot stuff. But for now, rest assured that the prawn is in progress ^_^  
Yes! All positive feedback and encouragement are appreciated  <3 Thank you for reading!  
  
I would like to add that I'm really not into criticism. Some things mentioned here are head-canon and not perfectly true to Tolkien. I'm writing this story for my own entertainment. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't, well, no one is making you read it and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you :D  
  
**Beta Credit:** All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
**Zeta Reader:** All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond begins to fade to his grief. Who will heal the healer? A story of things lost, and found.

**Chapter 26:**  
  
  
       Lindir's fingers spread wide across Elrond's chest, supporting his weight as he sank down on his lord's need. And tilting his head back with a moan as strong hands came up to guide him, he could scarcely believe how good this was. The position was new for him, but already he knew he wanted it this way again.

Desire tingled at the base of the singer's spine—a multitude of sensations running through his veins as he rocked his hips experimentally—and feeling his knees sink into the furs beneath them, he shuddered when Elrond rewarded him with a throaty groan that he could not help echoing.  
  
It was different like this. More filling. Deeper. And Lindir could control the pace. Neither of them needed to exert themselves, but they had to have this release. Uncertainty always fled when they were together, and each slick plunge drove back the darkness while building a rhythm between them. One that was reinforced by their knowledge of each other, and that the minstrel was still learning to trust.  
  
But any time the singer slowed or faltered, Elrond would take the opportunity to thrust impossibly further within; silently reassuring his partner that it was acceptable to be new to lovemaking. And to feel his beloved master so much part of him. To be filled so completely, and to have that place within teased! It made Lindir see stars on more than one level.  
  
It was after one such stutter, that he found himself unable to look away from Elrond's searching gaze. It lit up the bond between them, and made the sensation of giving while taking all the better. Their hearts beat as one.  
  
“My Lord,” he gasped, just before allowing himself to let go of his remaining inhibitions.  
  
No one would overhear them or walk in on them. The door was locked, they were safe, and he could finally please himself as well as his partner. It was a concept that he did not often fully grasp, but as he gained confidence it seemed to be happening more often.   
  
“You have no idea how beautiful you are, my minstrel,” the peredhel gasped when brown eyes met his, one hand letting go of the singer's hip to stroke a blushed cheekbone instead. Lindir did not need as much support now that he had found the pace between them, and Elrond was rocking up to meet every down-thrust.  
  
The peredhel's fathomless gray eyes studied each sinuous motion of that lean form, just as lost in the pleasure between them as Lindir. The minstrel's hair had turned a fiery ginger in the low light, and each cut and curve of muscle was shadowed and highlighted in stark relief. The devotion written in that loving countenance took Elrond's breath, and he was as honored as he was triumphant.  
  
To see Lindir let go, and to take him in and move over him with a will—winning his own pleasure as well as giving—it was the first time they had connected in such a manner in the bedroom; and Elrond was beyond delighted. They were no longer Lord and attendant, but One. To see such confidence in his lover, he knew without a doubt that the singer was ready to take his rightful place at his side. And he was ready to stand on his own once again.  
  
“Please. Take me harder. I need to feel you deeper. Please!” Lindir pleaded. He was close, and aching for each moment when he sank back down and it felt as if he was being filled for the first time all over again. There was no more burn or sting. Only the sensation of being as one heart.  
  
And when Elrond rolled them over into the blankets to come out on top, the singer yielded to him desperately. The peredhel was not gentle as they both neared their limits, but it did put them back into perfect sync. And when Elrond spilled out, overflowing Lindir and growling his completion, the singer was right behind him.  
  
~*~  
  
       Lindir was sleeping when Elrond left their borrowed quarters. The furor of Thranduil's Halls had calmed, and now elves slept where they could. Dawn was coming, and the sky outside the caverns had begun to turn a rich blue. The peredhel knew he did not have long before third watch changed over. That was important because what he had to speak of—and to whom he had to say it—needed to be private.  
  
Thankfully, his intuition was quick to guide him, and he found Thranduil perched pensively upon the edged of a fountain in Berelinil's memorial gardens. The peredhel had seen the room but a handful of times, yet somehow he had known the Sinda would be here. He was learning to listen to that small, still voice deep within him, and he made a mental note to do so with more frequency.  
  
“You came. I thought perhaps you would send your minstrel again?” Thranduil stated, only meeting Elrond's eyes through the mirror of the reflecting pool.  
  
Yes. There was tension between the elf-king and the peredhel, one that was laced with pain. Elrond felt his connection with Lindir stir sleepily in response to that, but he sent a mental wave of reassurance and love back until the minstrel nodded off again, appeased.  
  
Sighing, Elrond raised a brow. It was as he had suspected. Thranduil and Lindir had faced off at some point when he had not been aware. It had been necessary, but thinking back to what could have happened left him shaken.  
  
“What, he did not tell you?” the Sinda asked haughtily.  
  
Elrond shook his head, refusing to rise to the bait as he sat down beside the elf-king; and facing the doorway, he kept his back to his opponent and the fountain.  
  
“He is a good match for you,” Thranduil continued in the silence, a hint of defeat in his tone. “He will stand strong by your side, and will lead Imladris well. I am … happy for you.” The last three words were choked with suffering.  
  
Elrond swallowed his own tears audibly, refusing to let them fall. “There is a matter regarding my city, and our people. And I would tell you, if you would hear my council,” the peredhel said, changing the topic before his heart broke. Or Thranduil's did.  
  
“Oh?” the king asked, tone once again supercilious.  
  
“Do not trust Sauroman the White. There is a grand orchestration at hand, one which I feel he can only be spearheading. The goblins and orcs that attacked my city knew more than they should have, and it is not through my fathers that they have come by it. I have dreamed of my brother, and I believe it is a warning.”  
  
Thranduil was brokenly silent, and he let a slow breath out through his nose before he spoke. “I am glad that our borders have been shut to him. If I cannot trust a wizard, then who should I trust?” Resignation laced his question.  
  
The Sinda's ready acceptance of his accusation left Elrond unsettled, and only served to reinforce his feelings on the matter. “Trust in the Lord and Lady of the Wood. The Galadhrim have been the Greenwood's brothers and sisters even when you did not believe in them. Imladris stands with them.”  
  
Thranduil barked out a laugh, an undignified sound that was laced with regret, and Elrond did not provoke him further. “I must go,” the peredhel said apologetically, hearing the sound of approaching footfalls in the hall.  
  
“I know,” Thranduil replied softly.  
  
“Thranduil ...” Elrond began, tone aching.  
  
“Go now. With my blessing. The both of you. And the thanks of my realm.”  
  
Elrond rose, and bowing with his back still turned, he strode back out into the hall to return to Lindir.  
  
~*~  
  
       Lindir never thought the day would come where he would miss the Greenwood. His hands were gripping Elrond's belt tightly as he stared back across the ford, and he felt strangely numb. With regret in his heart, he balanced himself on his lord’s stallion—then let go long enough to return Rostlas and Dolnith's wave. And taking in the dark woods one more time, an odd, fatalistic part of him wondered if he would ever return here again.  
  
Beriadan stood proudly to one side of the crossing, and Legolas upon the other, and they, too, waved fondly to him. The two elves had promised to see the emissaries from Imladris safely off. This time being certain that the start of their journey was safer than the last one’s end.  
  
Beside Lindir and Elrond, Arwen shifted in the saddle while Maedhros helped her adjust her packs. One of the straps had slipped during the crossing, and Asfaloth gave a snort of approval as the warrior leaned over to re-balance the stallion's burden.  
  
Elrond reached down to give Lindir's hand a pat when it came to rest again on his belt again, and sent a trickle of love and reassurance through their bond. He could sense the singer's silent lament, and while it was certainly ironic, he found that he couldn't agree more. This had not been the most pleasant of journeys. Then again, finding oneself again after being so terribly lost was not meant to be.  
  
Fortunately, their return trip was already going more smoothly, and would be further guarded to the other side of Caradhras. Haldir and his host had agreed to see them safely across before turning back for home, and Elrond had agreed. If nothing else, for Arwen's safety. The peredhel still wasn't pleased with his daughter's ride for the Greenwood, even if Maedhros had accompanied her. But the last day and night of travel to reach the ford had provided him some solace. The red-haired warrior was an attentive guardian despite Arwen chafing beneath his vigilant gaze.  
  
As life went on around them, Lindir found his eye drawn to the edge of the forest. And far back from the others, mounted on his elk, Thranduil stood like a watchful ghost. The singer felt those ice-blue eyes meet his, and just as he was about to give the Sinda a wave as well, Thranduil touched his forehead with his fingertips in salute … and melted away like a shadow into the brush.  
  
“Did you see that?” Lindir whispered to Elrond.  
  
The peredhel raised a dark eyebrow. “See what?” he asked, though there might have been a hint of mischief glittering in his sea-gray eyes.  
  
~*~  
  
       Elrond settled to the sleeping furs with a sigh. Lindir was already curled up on his side, expression drowsy as he reached out to rest a hand on the peredhel's thigh. And resting a warm palm over the singer's in return, Elrond said a small prayer of thanks as he absorbed their surroundings.  
  
Their tents were secure and were blocking the night winds from the mountains, making the overnight temperature pleasant. No one had any freshly healed injuries to contend with this time. Morale was good, their guards were many, and food had more or less presented itself on the way, so no one had to touch their rations yet. Then there was the matter of Thranduil who was absent; and while Elrond felt that in his gut with a kind of regret he could not express properly, he was even happier that Lindir was here instead. Last but not least, and wonder of wonders, there was not the slightest hint of an orc or goblin. At least for the time being.  
  
Arwen was singing by the campfire, her voice low in deference to their surroundings, and Maedhros was having an animated conversation with Haldir. All around them the Golden Host were busy. Caring for mounts, each other, and equipment. And the tension that had previously permeated the ranger camp was nowhere to be found.  
  
“Thank the Valar,” Elrond murmured, resting his head in his hand. He had been swallowing a not-so-subtle tension for most of their trip, and he only now felt as if he could let his defenses down for a moment.  
  
“I did not think you believed in the Valar,” Lindir replied wryly, swallowing a sleepy laugh.  
  
Elrond thought about this more deeply than he should have, and when he turned to the minstrel, he allowed himself to sink to the furs as well. Loving brown eyes met his, and there was relief and joy in them as well as some answering sadness.  
  
“I think … I think I have found my faith again, thanks to you,” the peredhel stated, kissing Lindir's pale forehead.  
  
“Me?” the singer asked.  
  
“It has been thousands of years since I have seen someone free trapped souls, or cast out the Dark Lord's influence. It reminds me that … while our time here might be short, magic is not dead. It will not go out of this world, even when the elves leave it. Perhaps we have all made a difference, and we simply do not know realize it,” Elrond said solemnly.  
  
This made Lindir laugh. “You are as bad as _him_ ,” he teased in reply.  
  
“I fear it is in my nature. I cannot believe in something unless I see it,” Elrond said honestly.  
  
“Do you see me?” Lindir asked after a long pause. His earnest fingertips seeking out the bandage that covered Elrond's forearm, and the wound that he mirrored on his own body.  
  
“I do. For the first time, I truly do. And I admit I am ashamed that it has taken me so long to see what I still have, despite my losses. I have you to thank for that as well.”  
  
Lindir's only reply was to kiss Elrond soundly, and then curl up closer to the peredhel's chest, nestling close and trusting that somehow, everything would work out in the end.  
  
It had to.  
  
~*~  
  
       There was little fanfare when the returning company crossed the main bridge of Imladris, but already elves were scrambling to stand at either side of the path, their voices raised in greeting or their hands touching over their hearts. There was a look of relief on every upturned face, and a sense of stirring throughout the city. It was as if some sort of great beast that had been sleeping had rolled over, and taken a deep breath of wakefulness.  
  
Lindir felt shy, but Elrond withstood his people unflinchingly, clasping a forearm or hand from the saddle as they rode past. The singer, however, was drawn to regard something different. Marble was charred in places, and statues lay broken. Wisteria had been trampled, and many of the flowerbeds were still churned up despite the swift work of haggard gardeners. Things had changed, and he was in the middle of mentally composing a lament when Glorfindel's voice caught his ear.  
  
“Welcome home, My Lord,” the seneschal called above the sound of excited voices, leaving Erestor bowing in his wake as he strode over to take the peredhel's sword and cloak. His eyes locked with Elrond's, and he had no sooner helped his lord down from the saddle when then their combined gazes fell to the still-mounted Lindir.  
  
The singer looked shocked, and only managed to choke out the word “What?” before he was swept down from the peredhel's mount as well.  
  
And kissed fiercely by his beloved. Before everyone.  
  
The minstrel was blushing from ear-tip to toe, but he somehow managed to block out his complete mortification. Perhaps because Elrond's lips were that soft, or maybe because he could feel his lord's body responding to his within their embrace.  
  
“My Lord Elrond, I see you have chosen a consort at last?” Erestor announced as he approached, his hand coming to rest on Glorfindel's shoulder. The golden warrior was grinning in approval as he slipped an arm around Erestor's waist, giving him a sideways hug of relief.  
  
The peredhel nodded, and had only just pulled back from the kiss when a cheer went up from the city, loud, and long. Voices raised in jubilant song, and despite the lingering effects of war, the heart of the city gave a powerful beat. Lindir continued to cling to Elrond—his lord the only wall between himself and the overpowering happiness of a city that had nearly lost hope—but he was smiling behind a fine sheen of tears.  
  
“Finally,” Elrohir said, drifting to a stop beside Elladan, who was twisting Vilya on his finger where he stood back from the merry proceedings. The eldest twin did not get a chance to reply, though, before Arwen ran up to hug both of her brothers fiercely, and Maedhros strode after her, the hint of a smile turning up the corners of his mouth.  
  
~*~  
  
       Maglor paused at the entrance to Celebrían's gardens, studying his son from a distance. The night grew long, and it was dark, though there were enough lamps lit to turn the city to twilight. Elrond sat upon a stone bench, head in his hands. Before the peredhel, a cut crystal jar stood on a pedestal. The pillar had been freshly carved, and was a new addition among the roses.  
  
“I thought I might find you here,” the singer said quietly.  
  
Elrond startled, and then looked up slowly. There was no disguising the look of grief, longing, and love on his face as he got to his feet, moving like an elf dreaming.  
  
It took all the courage that Maglor had to make his way to Elrond's side, and even more-so to hold him tight. But the moment the peredhel wrapped his arms around the son of Fëanor's neck, the minstrel knew he had finally done the right thing. The scars on his palms no longer burned, and when his son began to sob he used them to rub that lean back. Elrond was still too thin, but that didn't matter. Nothing mattered but this moment.  
  
“Why did you leave?!” Elrond grit out, his voice raw. “What did I do wrong?” The words were nearly a wail. “I needed you! I needed you, and you were gone! Maedhros was dead, and you … you were … ”  
  
Maglor shushed his adopted son, not dismissing his words, but accepting them. They were fair questions, and he had been hiding from them as surely as he had Elrond. He had delighted when his charge had returned well from the Greenwood, but he had been unable to face him before now. It was Elrohir who had urged him to go to Elrond, and it had quite possibly been the hardest thing Maglor had ever had to do in his life. Yet, when the singer's knees finally buckled and he took the two of them down into the grass in a heap, he was still rocking the peredhel.  
  
“I let my grief get the better of me. I believed I would poison you with the darkness in my heart. I was unworthy to be your father. I always was, at least in my mind. But I never once considered your needs, or what you would have wanted. I should have have given you a say, not done what I thought was best in my cowardice. Oh, Elrond, I love you. To see you hurting as I have, and not intervening ... I was a fool. I still am. I have no right to ask this of you, but ... let me help? Let me be here now. This is my absolution. You.” The minstrel said nothing of his own pain, he did not consider it of merit. Only Elrond. Only this.  
  
“Stay,” the peredhel whispered thickly, unable to believe he was really in Maglor's arms. All those nights he had walked Imladris' halls in his grief, he had believed himself imagining his father's voice and harp. Now he knew better. It had been Maglor who had rescued him that fateful night he had sleep-walked. It had been Maglor's cloak he had been sleeping beneath when the world was too cruel and too much. It _was_ real. This was real. “ … Stay and remember her with me?” Elrond murmured hopefully.  
  
Maglor smiled sadly at that. And looking up, his face tear stained, he regarded the two rings intertwined beneath the crystalline vase upon the pedestal, “I think … this is the best way you can remember her. She would be pleased with your memorial. And even more than you let Lindir love you, and bring you joy once more. Would you let me sing for you?”  
  
Elrond sat back enough to regard his father, his face just as wet as Maglor's. “I would like that … very much,” he said raggedly.  
  
~*~  
  
       Elladan startled to feel a warm hand drop to his shoulder, and he turned sharply to see Maedhros smiling disarmingly at him.  
  
“You are back?” the peredhel asked, a plaintive note leaking into his tone despite his best attempts to prevent it.  
  
“I am. You did well.”  
  
Elladan was surprised at how good those words made him feel. They were somehow better from Maedhros' lips than from his own sire's, and he took a shuddering breath. He had been looking out over Imladris from the gazebo at the top of the hill. The one he had found Maedhros occupying when the warrior was new to Rivendell. And it was true, he had been berating himself. He could not shake the feeling that he could have somehow done better, that he could have done something _more_.  
  
He was glad that his father was back with them, but part of him had been aching in a way that defied definition, or explanation. That feeling had gone away the moment the red-haired warrior had touched him just now, and he did not know why.  
  
Or maybe he did.  
  
There was a knowing look in those green eyes as the warrior's gaze met Elladan's downcast ones.  
  
“You missed me?” Maedhros asked quietly, countenance gentling.  
  
Elladan mentally berated himself for being as bad as his brother, but he knew what he was going to do before he did it. And he had no regrets. Reaching up he wrapped his arms around Maedhros' shoulders, and drew the red-head in for a kiss. A kiss that filled him with starlight from head to toe, and a feeling of belonging like nothing else ever had. And when Maedhros' arms came around his waist, lifting him up to sit on the gazebo railing so the shorter peredhel did not have to stand on the tips of his toes, the warrior returned the gesture with equal fervor.  
  
~*~

  
       “Do you think I was too hard on Glorfindel?” Elrond asked, gripping the balcony railing tightly as he looked out over Imladris.  
  
Craftsmen were busy making repairs, and gardeners were sweeping, edging, trimming, and replanting. The city … it was well on the mend. The stench of evil had all but left, and the day before had seen the elves burying their dead. Peace was restored, and the peredhel no longer felt like he wanted to run away. Rather, that he had finally come home again after an agelong exile. Celebrían's absence was no longer like a hole in his chest, but an old scar aching; and it was finally dawning on him that he would mend. How could he not, with Lindir at his side?  
  
“I think he would have been more upset if you hadn't berated him,” Lindir replied, hands behind his back as he approached his lord, joining him in peering out over the city. There was a steadfastness to his demeanor that had not been there before, and the look on his face was one of belonging.  
  
Elrond couldn’t help but think that his attendant, his _beloved,_ had finally begun to grow into the lord he had always been meant to be. And at just the right moment. There was still the matter of him moving in with the peredhel—which he wasn't quite ready for yet—but Elrond had not pushed. It would happen it was time. Though, more often than not, the singer slept the night in the master-healer's bed, only leaving his side at dawn to make the preparations he felt necessary for the morning. And the nightmares had completely ceased from what the peredhel could tell.  
  
There was a familiar comfort in their daily rituals again, just as there was to have Lindir standing at his side now.  
  
“Are you glad to be back home?” Elrond asked, his tone less that of a lord, and more of a lover.  
  
“Home. I … yes. This _is_ home. Is it not?” Lindir replied, expression vulnerable.  
  
Elrond reached out to take the minstrel's hand, twining their fingers in a demonstration of solidarity.  
“It is normal to miss them. They became an extension of our family, and of Imladris,” the peredhel whispered thickly.  
  
“We will not be apart from our friends in the Greenwood forever. A day will come when we sail, and I will see some of them then. Hopefully most,” the singer said, squeezing Elrond's hand as much for his own reassurance as his lord’s.

“We will stand firm until our time here is done. There are still things we have yet to do—and an enemy to defeat—for the sake of all of Arda, as well as ourselves. The Dark Lord will rue the day he brought war to our sanctuary, and to the innocent. And Imladris will play a part in that. I will. And so will you.” Elrond squeezed Lindir's hand back just as firmly.  
  
“The city is nearly mended,” Lindir observed, tilting his head in thought. “It took but a week.”  
  
“Our resolve is still strong. The heart of our house beats once more, and there is little that can be done to stop it.”  
  
“That is a relief,” Lindir replied, understanding the dual meaning of that statement.  
  
“We will … endure.” Elrond continued, knowingly echoing Thranduil's stance with the hint of a playful smirk.  
  
“We will do more than endure. We will have joy and peace. Nothing angers our enemies more,” Lindir chuckled.  
  
This made Elrond laugh, and the sound rang out clean and clear above the hustle and bustle of city noise. “We also have a wedding upcoming,” the peredhel stated as he sobered, though the smile had not left his face.  
  
“Glorfindel and Erestor's, or your sons'?” Lindir teased, knowing that a shudder would wrack Elrond's form.  
  
He was not disappointed.  
  
“We will not … think about the latter for as long as possible,” Elrond shivered, though his expression was rueful. “Instead I will take comfort that my fathers are with me once more, and that Imladris is all the safer for it.”  
  
“You are a good master, My Lord, and a good father. You lead this city wisely, and you are back at the helm. I have no doubt that things will only improve. The Valar have blessed us,” Lindir said, turning to steal a shy kiss from a welcoming peredhel.  
  
“Indeed they have,” Elrond admitted, returning the kiss before tilting his head back in the warm sunshine. “Do you hear that?” he asked as he took in a slow, deep breath of mountain air, face upturned.  
  
Lindir nodded, honey-brown eyes warm with love.  
  
“They are singing,” he replied.  
  
“At last,” Elrond whispered, peace filling his heart once more.  
  
~*~  
_Finis_  
~*~  
  
**A/N:** After two years, and 300 some odd pages, Song of Stars is finished at last. This chapter still needs to be read over one more time by my betas. I will be writing a short epilogue after this, but as far as main fic? It’s all wrapped up. It has been an absolute honor to make this journey with my readers. Thank you for taking it with me.  
  
Yes! All positive feedback and encouragement are appreciated  <3  
  
I would like to add that I'm really not into criticism. Some things mentioned here are head-canon and not perfectly true to Tolkien. I'm writing this story for my own entertainment. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't, well, no one is making you read it and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you :D  
  
**Beta Credit:** All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
**Zeta Reader:** All hail to the glorious Thranduilfatherofgreenleaf http://www.thranduilfatherofgreenleaf.tumblr.com  
  



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